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Darby  OGill 

C/ 

Good 


DARBY   O'GILL  AND  THE 
GOOD  PEOPLE 


Darby  O'Gill 

and  the  Good  People 

By 

Herminie  Templeton  Kavanagh 


Frontispiece    by 
John  R.  Neill 


Chicago 
The  Beilly  &  Lee  Co. 


Copyright,  1903 

By 
McClure,  Phillips  &  Co. 


FOREWORD 

j[  HIS  history  sets  forth  the  only  true  account  of  the 
adventures  of  a  daring  Tipperary  man  named  Darby 
O'Gill  among  the  Fairies  of  Sleive-na-mon. 

These  adventures  were  first  related  to  me  by  Mr. 
Jerry  Murtaugh,  a  reliable  car-driver,  who  goes  be- 
tween Kilcuny  and  Ballinderg.  He  is  a  first  cousin 
of  Darby  O'Gill's  own  mother. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DARBY  O'GiLL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE  ....  1 

DARBY  O'GiLL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN    ....  29 

THE  CONVARSION  OF  FATHER  CASSIDY    ....  61 

How  THE  FAIRIES  CAME  TO  IRELAND    ....  89 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  KING  BRIAN  CONNORS    .  .111 

Chap.      I.     The  King  and  the  Omadhaun  .   113 

Chap.    II.     The  Couple  without  Childher  .  137 

Chap.  III.     The  Luck  of  the  Mulligans  .  .156 

THE  BANSHEE'S  COMB 175 

Chap.  I.  The  Diplomacy  of  Bridget  .  .  177 
Chap.  II.  The  Banshee1*  Halloween  .  .  203 
Chap.  III.  The  Ghosts  at  Chartre's  Mill  .  240 
Chap.  IV.  The  Costa  Bower 265 


DARBY  O'GiLL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 


THE  FAIRIES 

**  Up  the  airy  mountain, 
Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 
For  fear  of  little  men. 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 
Trooping  altogether; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 
And  white  owl's  feather. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long; 

When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 

They  took  her  lightly  back 

Between  the  day  and  morrow; 

They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleept 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow." 

WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 


DARBY  O'GiLL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 


ALTHOUGH  only  one  living  man  of  his  own  free 
will  ever  went  among  them  there,  still,  any  well- 
learned  person  in  Ireland  can  tell  you  that  the  abode 
of  the  Good  People  is  in  the  hollow  heart  of  the  great 
mountain,  Sleive-na-mon.  That  same  one  man  was 
Darby  O'Gill,  a  cousin  of  my  own  mother. 

Right  and  left,  generation  after  generation,  the 
fairies  had  stolen  pigs,  young  childher,  old  women, 
young  men,  cows,  churnings  of  butter  from  other  peo- 
ple, but  had  never  bothered  any  of  our  kith  or  kin 
until,  for  some  mysterious  rayson,  they  soured  on 
Darby,  and  took  the  eldest  of  his  three  foine  pigs. 

The  next  week  a  second  pig  went  the  same  way. 
The  third  week  not  a  thing  had  Darby  left  for  the 
Balinrobe  fair.  You  may  aisly  think  how  sore  and 
sorry  the  poor  man  was,  an'  how  Bridget,  his  wife, 
an'  the  childher  carried  on.  The  rent  was  due,  and  all 
left  was  to  sell  his  cow  Rosie  to  pay  it.  Rosie  was  the 

[3] 


DARBY    O     GILL     AND     THE    GOOD    PEOPLE 

apple  of  his  eye ;  he  admired  and  rayspected  the  pigs, 
but  he  loved  Rosie. 

Worst  luck  of  all  was  yet  to  come.  On  the  morn- 
ing when  Darby  went  for  the  cow  to  bring  her  into, 
market,  bad  scrans  to  the  hoof  was  there ;  but  in  her, 
place  only  a  wisp  of  dirty  straw  to  mock  him.  Millia 
murther !  What  a  howlin'  and  screechin'  and  cursin' 
did  Darby  bring  back  to  the  house ! 

Now  Darby  was  a  bould  man,  and  a  desperate  man 
in  his  anger  as  you  soon  will  see.  He  shoved  his  feet 
into  a  pair  of  brogues,  clapped  his  hat  on  his  head, 
and  gripped  his  stick  in  his  hand. 

"  Fairy  or  no  fairy,  ghost  or  goblin,  livin'  or  dead, 
who  took  Rosie'll  rue  the  day,"  he  says. 

With  those  wild  words  he  boulted  in  the  direction 
of  Sleive-na-mon. 

All  day  long  he  climbed  like  an  ant  over  the  hill, 
looking  for  hole  or  cave  through  which  he  could  get 
at  the  prison  of  Rosie.  At  times  he  struck  the  rocks 
with  his  black -thorn,  cryin'  out  challenge. 

"  Come  out,  you  that  took  her,"  he  called.  "  If  ye 
have  the  courage  of  a  mouse,  ye  murtherin'  thieves, 
come  out ! " 

No  one  made  answer — at  laste,  not  just  then.    But 
[4] 


DARBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

at  night,  as  he  turned,  hungry  and  footsore,  toward 
home,  who  should  he  meet  up  with  on  the  cross-roads 
but  the  ould  fairy  doctor,  Sheelah  Maguire;  well 
known  was  she  as  a  spy  for  the  Good  People.  She 
^spoke  up : 

"  Oh,  then,  you're  the  foolish,  blundherin'-headed 
man  to  be  saying  what  you've  said,  and  doing  what 
you've  done  this  day,  Darby  O'Gill,"  says  she. 

"  What  do  I  care !  "  says  he,  fiercely.  "  I'd  fight 
the  divil  for  my  beautiful  cow." 

"  Then  go  into  Mrs.  Hagan's  meadow  beyant,"  says 
Sheelah,  "  and  wait  till  the  moon  is  up.  By  an'  by 
ye'll  see  a  herd  of  cows  come  down  from  the  moun- 
tain, and  yer  own'll  be  among  them." 

"  What  I'll  I  do  then?  "  asked  Darby,  his  voice 
thrembling  with  excitement. 

"  Sorra  a  hair  I  care  what  ye  do !  But  there'll  be 
lads  there,  and  hundreds  you  won't  see,  that'll  stand 
no  ill  words,  Darby  O'Gill." 

"  One  question  more,  ma'am,"  says  Darby,  as  Shee- 
lah was  moving  away.  "  How  late  in  the  night  will 
they  stay  without  ?  " 

Sheelah  caught  him  by  the  collar  and,  pulling  his 
head  close,  whuspered: 

[5] 


DABBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

"  When  the  cock  crows  the  Good  People  must  be 
safe  at  home.  After  cock-crow  they  have  no  power  to 
help  or  to  hurt,  and  every  mortal  eye  can  see  them 
plain." 

"  I  thank  you  kindly,"  says  Darby,  "  and  I  bid 
you  good  evening,  ma'am."  He  turned  away,  leaving 
her  standing  there  alone  looking  after  him;  but  he 
was  sure  he  heard  voices  talkin'  to  her  and  laughin' 
and  tittherin'  behind  him. 

It  was  dark  night  when  Darby  stretched  himself 
on  the  ground  in  Hagan's  meadow ;  the  yellow  rim  of 
the  moon  just  tipped  the  edge  of  the  hills. 

As  he  lay  there  in  the  long  grass  amidst  the  silence 
there  came  a  cowld  shudder  in  the  air,  an'  afther  it 
had  passed  the  deep  cracked  voice  of  a  near-by  bull- 
frog called  loudly  an'  ballyraggin' : 

"  The  Omadhaun !  Omadhaun !  Omadhaun !  "  it 
said. 

From  a  sloe  three  over  near  the  hedge  an  owl  cried, 
surprised  and  thrembling : 

"  Who-o-o?   who-o-o?  "  it  axed. 

At  that  every  frog  in  the  meadow — an'  there  must 
have  been  tin  thousand  of  them — took  up  the  answer, 
an'  shrieked  shrill  an'  high  together.  "  Darby  O'Gill ! 
Darby  O'Gill!  Darby  O'Gill!  "  sang  they. 

[6] 


DABBY  O'GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

"The  Omadhaun!  The  Omadhaun!"  cried  the 
wheezy  masther  frog  again.  "  Who-o?  Who-o? " 
axed  the  owl.  "Darby  O'Gill!  Darby  O'Gill!" 
screamed  the  rollicking  chorus;  an'  that  way  they 
were  goin'  over  an'  over  agin  until  the  bould  man  was 
just  about  to  creep  off  to  another  spot  whin,  sudden, 
a  hundred  slow  shadows,  stirring  up  the  mists,  crept 
from  the  mountain  way  toward  him.  First  he  must 
find  was  Rosie  among  the  herd.  To  creep  quiet  as  a 
cat  through  the  hedge  and  raich  the  first  cow  was  only 
a  minute's  work.  Then  his  plan,  to  wait  till  cock- 
crow, with  all  other  sober,  sensible  thoughts,  went 
clane  out  of  the  lad's  head  before  his  rage ;  for  crop- 
ping eagerly  the  long,  sweet  grass,  the  first  baste  he 
met,  was  Rosie. 

With  a  leap  Darby  was  behind  her,  his  stick  fall- 
ing sharply  on  her  flanks.  The  ingratichude  of  that 
cow  almost  broke  Darby's  heart.  Rosie  turned  fierce- 
ly on  him  with  a  vicious  lunge,  her  two  horns  aimed 
at  his  breast.  There  was  no  suppler  boy  in  the  parish 
than  Darby,  and  well  for  him  it  was  so,  for  the  mad 
rush  the  cow  gave  would  have  caught  any  man  the 
laste  trifle  heavy  on  his  legs  and  ended  his  days  right 
there. 


DARBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

As  it  was,  our  hayro  sprang  to  one  side.  As  Rosie 
passed  his  left  hand  gripped  her  tail.  When  one  of 
the  O'Gills  takes  hould  of  a  thing  he  hangs  on  like  a 
bull-terrier.  Away  he  went,  rushing  with  her. 

Now  began  a  race  the  like  of  which  was  never  heard 
of  before  or  since.  Ten  jumps  to  the  second  and  a 
hundred  feet  to  the  jump.  Rosie's  tail  standing 
straight  up  in  the  air,  firm  as  an  iron  bar,  and  Darby 
floating  straight  out  behind ;  a  thousand  furious  fair- 
ies flying  a  short  distance  after,  filling  the  air  with 
wild  commands  and  threatenings. 

Suddenly  the  sky  opened  for  a  crash  of  lightning 
that  shivered  the  hills,  and  a  roar  of  thunder  that 
turned  out  of  their  beds  every  man,  woman,  and  child 
in  four  counties.  Flash  after  flash  came  the  light- 
ning, hitting  on  every  side  of  our  hayro.  If  it  wasn't 
for  fear  of  hurting  Rosie  the  fairies  would  certainly 
have  killed  Darby.  As  it  was,  he  was  stiff  with  fear, 
afraid  to  hould  on  and  afraid  to  lave  go,  but  flew, 
waving  in  the  air  at  Rosie's  tail  like  a  flag. 

As  the  cow  turned  into  the  long,  narrow  valley 
which  cuts  into  the  east  side  of  the  mountain  the  Good 
People  caught  up  with  the  pair,  and  what  they  didn't 
do  to  Darby  in  the  line  of  sticking  pins,  pulling 

[8] 


DARBY  O   G  I  L  L  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

whiskers,  and  pinching  wouldn't  take  long  to  tell.  In 
troth,  he  was  just  about  to  let  go  his  hould  and  take 
the  chances  of  a  fall  when  the  hillside  opened  and — 
whisk !  the  cow  turned  into  the  mountain.  Darby 
found  himself  flying  down  a  wide,  high  passage  which 
grew  lighter  as  he  went  along.  He  heard  the  opening 
behind  shut  like  a  trap,  and  his  heart  almost  stopped 
beating,  for  this  was  the  fairies'  home  in  the  heart  of 
Sleive-na-mon.  He  was  captured  by  them ! 

When  Rosie  stopped,  so  stiff  were  all  Darby's  joints 
that  he  had  great  trouble  loosening  himself  to  come 
down.  He  landed  among  a  lot  of  angry-faced  little 
people,  each  no  higher  than  your  hand,  every  one 
wearing  a  green  velvet  cloak  and  a  red  cap,  and  in 
every  cap  was  stuck  a  white  owl's  feather. 

"  We'll  take  him  to  the  King,"  says  a  red-whusk- 
ered  wee  chap.  "  What  he'll  do  to  the  murtherin' 
spalpeen'll  be  good  and  plenty !  " 

With  that  they  marched  our  bould  Darby,  a  pris- 
oner, down  the  long  passage,  which  every  second  grew 
wider  and  lighter  and  fuller  of  little  people. 

Sometimes,  though,  he  met  with  human  beings  like 
himself,  only  the  black  charm  was  on  them,  they  hav- 
ing been  stolen  at  some  time  by  the  Good  People.  He 

[9] 


DABBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

saw  lost  people  there  from  every  parish  in  Ireland, 
both  commoners  and  gentry.  Each  was  laughing, 
talking,  and  divarting  himself  with  another.  Off  to 
the  sides  he  could  see  small  cobblers  making  brogues, 
tinkers  mending  pans,  tailors  sewing  cloth,  smiths 
hammering  horse-shoes,  every  one  merrily  to  his 
trade,  making  a  divarsion  out  of  work. 

To  this  day  Darby  can't  tell  where  the  beautiful 
red  light  he  now  saw  came  from.  It  was  like  a  soft 
glow,  only  it  filled  the  place,  making  things  brighter 
than  day. 

Down  near  the  centre  of  the  mountain  was  a  room 
twenty  times  higher  and  broader  than  the  biggest 
church  in  the  worruld.  As  they  drew  near  this  room 
there  arose  the  sound  of  a  reel  played  on  bagpipes. 
The  music  was  so  bewitching  that  Darby,  who  was 
the  gracef  ullest  reel-dancer  in  all  Ireland,  could  hard- 
ly make  his  feet  behave  themselves. 

At  the  room's  edge  Darby  stopped  short  and 
caught  his  breath,  the  sight  was  so  entrancing.  Set 
over  the  broad  floor  were  thousands  and  thousands  of 
the  Good  People,  facing  this  way  and  that,  dancing 
to  a  reel ;  while  on  a  throne  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
sat  ould  Brian  Connors,  King  of  the  Fairies,  blowing 
[10] 


DABBY  O'GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

on  the  bagpipes.  The  little  King,  with  a  goold 
crown  on  his  head,  wearing  a  beautiful  green  velvet 
coat  and  red  knee-breeches,  sat  with  his  legs  crossed, 
beating  time  with  his  foot  to  the  music. 

There  were  many  from  Darby's  own  parish;  and 
what  was  his  surprise  to  see  there  Maureen  McGibney, 
his  own  wife's  sister,  whom  he  had  supposed  resting 
dacintly  in  her  own  grave  in  holy  ground  these  three 
years.  She  had  flowers  in  her  brown  hair,  a  fine  colour 
in  her  cheeks,  a  gown  of  white  silk  and  goold,  and  her 
green  mantle  raiched  to  the  heels  of  her  purty  red 
slippers. 

There  she  was  gliding  back  an'  forth,  ferninst  a 
little  gray-whuskered,  round-stomached  fairy  man,  as 
though  there  was  never  a  care  nor  a  sorrow  in  the 
worruld. 

As  I  tould  you  before,  I  tell  you  again,  Darby  was 
the  finest  reel-dancer  in  all  Ireland ;  and  he  came  from 
a  family  of  dancers,  though  I  say  it  who  shouldn't,  as 
he  was  my  mother's  own  cousin.  Three  things  in  the 
worruld  banish  sorrow — love  and  whisky  and  music. 
So,  when  the  surprise  of  it  all  melted  a  little,  Darby's 
feet  led  him  in  to  the  thick  of  the  throng,  right  under 
the  throne  of  the  King,  where  he  flung  care  to  the 

[11] 


DARBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

winds  and  put  his  heart  and  mind  into  his  two  nimble 
feet.  Darby's  dancing  was  such  that  purty  soon 
those  around  stood  still  to  admire. 

There's  a  saying  come  down  in  our  family  through 
generations  which  I  still  hould  to  be  true,  that  the 
better  the  music  the  aisier  the  step.  Sure  never  did 
mortal  men  dance  to  so  fine  a  chune  and  never  so  sup- 
ple a  dancer  did  such  a  chune  meet  up  with. 

Fair  and  graceful  he  began.     Backward  and  for- 
ward, side-step  and  turn;  cross  over,  thin  forward;  a 
hand  on  his  hip  and  his  stick  twirling  free ;  side-step 
and  forward ;  cross  over  agin ;  bow  to  his  partner,  and/ 
hammer  the  floor. 

It  wasn't  long  till  half  the  dancers  crowded  around 
admiring,  clapping  their  hands,  and  shouting  encour- 
agement. The  ould  King  grew  so  excited  that  he  laid 
down  the  pipes,  took  up  his  fiddle,  came  down  from 
the  throne,  and,  standing  ferninst  Darby,  began  a 
finer  chune  than  the  first. 

The  dancing  lasted  a  whole  hour,  no  one  speaking 
a  word  except  to  cry  out,  "  Foot  it,  ye  divil !  "  "  Aisy 
now,  he's  threading  on  flowers !  "  "  Hooroo !  hooroo ! 
hooray !  "  Then  the  King  stopped  and  said : 

"  Well,  that  bates  Banagher,  and  Banagher  bates 
[12] 


DARBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

the  worruld !  Who  are  you  and  how  came  you 
here?" 

Then  Darby  up  and  tould  the  whole  story. 

When  he  had  finished,  the  King  looked  sayrious. 
"  I'm  glad  you  came,  an'  I'm  sorry  you  came,"  he 
says.  "  If  we  had  put  our  charm  on  you  outside  to 
bring  you  in  you'd  never  die  till  the  ind  of  the  worruld, 
when  we  here  must  all  go  to  hell.  But,"  he  added, 
quickly,  "  there's  no  use  in  worrying  about  that  now. 
That's  nayther  here  nor  there !  Those  willing  to  come 
with  us  can't  come  at  all,  at  all ;  and  here  you  are  of 
your  own  free  act  and  will.  Howsomever,  you're  here, 
and  we  darn't  let  you  go  outside  to  tell  others  of  what 
you  have  seen,  and  so  give  us  a  bad  name  about — 
about  taking  things,  you  know.  We'll  make  you  as 
comfortable  as  we  can ;  and  so  you  won't  worry  about 
Bridget  and  the  childher,  I'll  have  a  goold  sovereign 
left  with  them  every  day  of  their  lives.  But  I  wish 
we  had  comeither  on  you,"  he  says,  with  a  sigh,  "  for 
it's  aisy  to  see  you're  great  company.  Now,  come  up 
to  my  place  and  have  a  noggin  of  punch  for  friend- 
ship's sake,"  says  he. 

That's  how  Darby  O'Gill  began  his  six  months'  stay 
with  the  Good  People.  Not  a  thing  was  left  undone 
[13] 


DARBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

to  make  Darby  contented  and  happy.  A  civiller  peo- 
ple than  the  Good  People  he  never  met.  At  first  he 
couldn't  get  over  saying,  "  God  save  all  here  "  and 
"  God  save  you  kindly,"  and  things  like  that,  which 
was  like  burning  them  with  a  hot  iron. 

If  it  weren't  for  Maureen  McGibney,  Darby  would 
be  in  Sleive-na-mon  at  this  hour.  Sure  she  was  always 
the  wise  girl,  ready  with  her  crafty  plans  and  warn- 
ings. On  a  day  when  they  two  were  sitting  alone  to- 
gether she  says  to  him: 

"  Darby,  dear,"  says  she,  "  it  isn't  right  for  a  da- 
cint  man  of  family  to  be  spending  his  days  cavortin' 
and  idlin'  and  fillin'  the  hours  with  sport  and  non- 
sense. We  must  get  you  out  of  here;  for  what  is  a 
sovereign  a  day  to  compare  with  the  care  and  protec- 
tion of  a  father?  "  she  says. 

"  Thrue  for  ye !  "  moaned  Darby,  "  and  my  heart 
is  just  splittin'  for  a  sight  of  Bridget  an'  the  childher. 
Bad  luck  to  the  day  I  set  so  much  store  on  a  dirty, 
ongratef  ul,  treacherous  cow !  " 

"  I  know  well  how  you  feel,"  says  Maureen,  "  for 

I'd  give  the  world  to  say  three  words  to  Bob  Broder- 

ick,  that  ye  tell  me  that  out  of  grief  for  me  he  has 

never  kept  company  with  any  other  girl  till  this  day. 

[14] 


DAEBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

But  that'll  never  be,"  she  says,  "  because  I  must  stop 
here  till  the  Day  of  Judgment,  then  I  must  go  to 

,"  says  she,  beginning  to  cry,  "  but  if  you  get 

out,  you'll  bear  a  message  to  Bob  for  me,  maybe?  " 
she  says. 

"  It's  aisy  to  talk  about  going  out,  but  how  can  it 
be  done  ?  "  asked  Darby. 

"  There's  a  way,"  says  Maureen,  wiping  her  big, 
gray  eyes,  "  but  it  may  take  years.  First,  you  must 
know  that  the  Good  People  can  never  put  their  charm 
on  anyone  who  is  willing  to  come  with  them.  That's 
whay  you  came  safe.  Then,  agin,  they  can't  work 
harm  in  the  daylight,  and  after  cock-crow  any  mortal 
eye  can  see  them  plain;  nor  can  they  harm  anyone 
who  has  a  sprig  of  holly,  nor  pass  over  a  leaf  or  twig 
of  holly,  because  that's  Christmas  bloom.  Well, 
there's  a  certain  evil  word  for  a  charm  that  opens  the 
side  of  the  mountain,  and  I  will  try  to  find  it  out  for 
you.  Without  that  word  all  the  armies  in  the  worruld 
couldn't  get  out  or  in.  But  you  must  be  patient  and 
wise  and  wait." 

"  I  will  so,  with  the  help  of  God,"  says  Darby. 

At  these  words  Maureen  gave  a  terrible  screech. 

"  Cruel  man !  "  she  cried,  "  don't  you  know  that  to 
[15] 


DARBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

say  pious  words  to  one  of  the  Good  People,  or  to  one 
undher  their  black  charm,  is  like  cutting  him  with  a 
knife?  " 

The  next  night  she  came  to  Darby  again. 

"  Watch  yerself  now,"  she  says,  "  for  to-night 
they're  goin'  to  lave  the  door  of  the  mountain  open 
to  thry  you ;  and  if  you  stir  two  steps  outside  they'll 
put  the  comeither  on  you,"  she  says. 

Sure  enough,  when  Darby  took  his  walk  down  the 
passage  after  supper,  as  he  did  every  night,  there  the 
side  of  the  mountain  lay  wide  open  and  no  one  in 
sight.  The  temptation  to  make  one  rush  was  great; 
but  he  only  looked  out  a  minute,  and  went  whustling 
down  the  passage,  knowing  well  that  a  hundred  hid- 
den eyes  were  on  him  the  while.  For  a  dozen  nights 
after  it  was  the  same. 

At  another  time  Maureen  said: 

"  The  King  himself  is  going  to  thry  you  hard  the 
day,  so  beware !  "  She  had  no  sooner  said  the  words 
than  Darby  was  called  for,  and  went  up  to  the 
King. 

"  Darby,  my  sowl,"  says  the  King,  in  a  sootherin* 
way,  "  have  this  noggin  of  punch.  A  betther  never 
was  brewed;  it's  the  last  we'll  have  for  many  a  day. 
[16] 


DARBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

I'm  going  to  set  you  free,  Darby  O'Gill,  that's  what 
I  am." 

"  Why,  King,"  says  Darby,  putting  on  a  mournful 
face,  "  how  have  I  offended  ye  ?  " 

"  No  offence  at  all,"  says  the  King,  "  only  we're 
depriving  you." 

"  No  depravity  in  life !  "  says  Darby.  "  I  have 
lashins  and  lavings  to  ate  and  to  drink  and  nothing 
but  fun  an'  divarsion  all  day  long.  Out  in  the 
worruld  it  was  nothing  but  work  and  throuble  and 
sickness,  disappointment  and  care." 

"  But  Bridget  and  the  childher  ?  "  says  the  King, 
giving  him  a  sharp  look  out  of  half -shut  eyes. 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  King,"  says  Darby,  "  it's  aisier 
for  a  widow  to  get  a  husband  or  for  orphans  to  find  a 
father  than  it  is  for  them  to  pick  up  a  sovereign  a 
day." 

The  King  looked  mighty  satisfied  and  smoked  for 
a  while  without  a  word. 

"  Would  you  mind  goin'  out  an  evenin'  now  and 
then,  helpin'  the  boys  to  mind  the  cows  ?  "  he  asked  at 
last. 

Darby  feared  to  trust  himself  outside  in  their  com- 
pany. 

[17] 


DARBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  ye  how  it  is,"  replied  my  brave 
Darby.  "  Some  of  the  neighbours  might  see  me,  and 
spread  the  report  on  me  that  I'm  with  the  fairies  and 
that'd  disgrace  Bridget  and  the  childher,"  he  says. 

The  King  knocked  ashes  from  his  pipe. 

"  You're  a  wise  man,  besides  being  the  hoight  of 
good  company,"  says  he,  "  and  it's  sorry  I  am  you 
didn't  take  my  word,  for  then  we  would  have  you  al- 
ways, at  laste  till  the  Day  of  Judgment,  when — but 
that's  nayther  here  nor  there!  Howsomever,  we'll 
bother  you  about  it  no  more." 

From  that  day  they  thrated  him  as  one  of  their 
own. 

It  was  nearly  five  months  afther  that  Maureen 
plucked  Darby  by  the  coat  and  led  him  off  to  a  lonely 
spot. 

"  I've  got  the  word,"  she  says. 

"  Have  you,  faith!  What  is  it?  "  says  Darby,  all 
of  a  thrimble. 

Then  she  whispered  a  word  so  blasphaymous,  so  ir- 
rayligious  that  Darby  blessed  himself.  When  Mau- 
reen saw  him  making  the  sign,  she  fell  down  in  a  fit, 
the  holy  emblem  hurt  her  so,  poor  child. 

Three  hours  after  this  me  bould  Darby  was  sitting 
[18] 


DAEBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

at  his  own  fireside  talking  to  Bridget  and  the  childher. 
The  neighbours  were  hurrying  to  him  down  every  road 
and  through  every  field,  carrying  armfuls  of  holly 
bushes,  as  he  had  sent  word  for  them  to  do.  He  knew 
well  he'd  have  fierce  and  savage  visitors  before  morn- 
ing. 

After  they  had  come  with  the  holly,  he  had  them 
make  a  circle  of  it  so  thick  around  the  house  that  a 
fly  couldn't  walk  through  without  touching  a  twig  or 
leaf.  But  that  was  not  all. 

You'll  know  what  a  wise  girl  and  what  a  crafty  girl 
that  Maureen  was  when  you  hear  what  the  neighbours 
did  next.  They  made  a  second  ring  of  holly  outside 
the  first,  so  that  the  house  sat  in  two  great  wreaths, 
one  wreath  around  the  other.  The  outside  ring  was 
much  the  bigger,  and  left  a  good  space  between  it  and 
the  first,  with  room  for  ever  so  many  people  to  stand 
there.  It  was  like  the  inner  ring,  except  for  a  little 
gate,  left  open  as  though  by  accident,  where  the  fair- 
ies could  walk  in. 

But  it  wasn't  an  accident  at  all,  only  the  wise  plan 
of  Maureen's;  for  nearby  this  little  gap,  in  the  out- 
side wreath,  lay  a  sprig  of  holly  with  a  bit  of  twine 
tied  to  it.  Then  the  twine  ran  along  up  to  Darby's 
[19] 


DAUBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

house,  and  in  through  the  window,  where  its  ind  lay 
convaynient  to  his  hand.  A  little  pull  on  the  twine 
would  drag  the  stray  piece  of  holly  into  the  gap  and 
close  tight  the  outside  ring. 

It  was  a  trap,  you  see.  When  the  fairies  walked  in 
through  the  gap  the  twine  was  to  be  pulled,  and  so 
they  were  to  be  made  prisoners  between  the  two  rings 
of  holly.  They  couldn't  get  into  Darby's  house  be- 
cause the  circle  of  holly  nearest  the  house  was  so  tight 
that  a  fly  couldn't  get  through  without  touching  the 
blessed  tree  or  its  wood.  Likewise,  when  the  gap  in 
the  outer  wreath  was  closed,  they  couldn't  get  out 
agin.  Well,  anyway,  these  things  were  hardly  finished 
and  fixed  when  the  dusky  brown  of  the  hills  warned 
the  neighbours  of  twilight,  and  they  scurried  like 
frightened  rabbits  to  their  homes. 

Only  one  amongst  them  all  had  courage  to  sit  in- 
side Darby's  house  waiting  the  dreadful  wisitors,  and 
that  one  was  Bob  Broderick.  What  vengeance  was  in 
store  couldn't  be  guessed  at  all,  at  all,  only  it  was  sure 
to  be  more  turrible  than  any  yet  wreaked  on  mortal 
man. 

Not  in  Darby's  house  alone  was  the  terror,  for  in 
their  anger  the  Good  People  might  lay  waste  the  whole 
[20] 


DARBY    OGILL     AND     THE    GOOD    PEOPLE 

parish.  The  roads  and  fields  were  empty  and  silent  in 
the  darkness.  Not  a  window  glimmered  with  light 
for  miles  around.  Many  a  blaggard  who  hadn't  said 
a  prayer  for  years  was  down  on  his  marrow  bones 
among  the  dacint  members  of  his  family,  thumping 
his  craw  and  roaring  his  Father  and  Aves. 

In  Darby's  quiet  house,  against  which  the  cunning, 
the  power,  and  the  fury  of  the  Good  People  would 
first  break,  you  can't  think  of  half  the  suffering  of 
Bridget  and  the  childher,  as  they  lay  huddled  togeth- 
er on  the  settle-bed;  nor  of  the  strain  on  Bob  and 
Darby,  who  sat  smoking  their  dudeens  and  whispering 
anxiously  together. 

For  some  rayson  or  other  the  Good  People  were 
long  in  coming.  Ten  o'clock  struck,  thin  eleven, 
afther  that  twelve,  and  not  a  sound  from  the  outside. 
The  silence,  and  then  no  sign  of  any  kind,  had  them 
all  just  about  crazy,  when  suddenly  there  fell  a  sharp 
rap  on  the  door. 

"  Millia  murther,"  whispered  Darby,  "  we're  in  for 
it.  They've  crossed  the  two  rings  of  holly  and  are  at 
the  door  itself." 

The  childher  begun  to  cry,  and  Bridget  said  her 
prayers  out  loud ;  but  no  one  answered  the  knock. 


DARBY  O'GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

"  Rap,  rap,  rap,"  on  the  door,  then  a  pause. 

"  God  save  all  here !  "  cried  a  queer  voice  from  the 
outside. 

Now  no  fairy  would  say  "  God  save  all  here,"  so 
Darby  took  heart  and  opened  the  door.  Who  should 
be  standing  there  but  Sheelah  Maguire,  a  spy  for  the 
Good  People.  So  angry  were  Darby  and  Bob  that 
they  snatched  her  within  the  threshold,  and  before  she 
knew  it  they  had  her  tied  hand  and  foot,  wound  a  cloth 
around  her  mouth,  and  rolled  her  under  the  bed. 
Within  the  minute  a  thousand  rustling  woices  sprung 
from  outside.  Through  the  window,  in  the  clear 
moonlight,  Darby  marked  weeds  and  grass  being 
trampled  by  inwisible  feet  beyond  the  farthest  ring 
of  holly. 

Suddenly  broke  a  great  cry.  The  gap  in  the  first 
ring  was  found.  Signs  were  plainly  seen  of  uncount- 
able feet  rushing  through  and  spreading  about  the 
nearer  wreath.  Afther  that  a  howl  of  madness  from 
the  little  men  and  women.  Darby  had  pulled  his 
twine  and  the  trap  was  closed,  with  five  thousand  of 
the  Good  People  entirely  at  his  mercy. 

Princes,  princesses,  dukes,  dukesses,  earls,  earlesses, 
and  all  the  quality  of  Sleive-na-mon  were  presoners. 
[22] 


DAEBf    O     GILL     AND    THE    GOOD    P  E  O  P'L  E 

Not  more  than  a  dozen  of  the  last  to  come  escaped, 
and  they  flew  back  to  tell  the  King. 

For  an  hour  they  raged.  All  the  bad  names  ever 
called  to  mortal  man  were  given  free,  but  Darby  said 
never  a  word.  "  Pickpocket !  "  "  Sheep-stayler !  " 
"  Murtherin'  thaf e  of  a  blaggard !  "  were  the  softest 
words  trun  at  him. 

By  an'  by,  howsumever,  as  it  begun  to  grow  near  to 
cock-crow,  their  talk  grew  a  great  dale  civiller.  Then 
came  beggin',  pladin',  promisin',  and  enthratin',  but 
the  doors  of  the  house  still  stayed  shut  an'  its  win- 
dows down. 

Purty  soon  Darby's  old  rooster,  Terry,  came  down 
from  his  perch,  yawned,  an'  flapped  his  wings  a  few 
times.  At  that  the  terror  and  the  screechin'  of  the 
Good  People  would  have  melted  the  heart  of  a  stone. 

All  of  a  sudden  a  fine  clear  voice  rose  from  beyant 
the  crowd.  The  King  had  come.  The  other  fairies 
grew  still  listening. 

"  Ye  murtherin'  thafe  of  the  worruld,"  says  the 
King,  grandly,  "  what  are  ye  doin'  wid  my  people  ?  " 

"  Keep  a  civil  tongue  in  yer  head,  Brian  Connors," 
says  Darby,  sticking  his  head  out  the  window,  "  for 
I'm  as  good  a  man  as  you,  any  day,"  says  Darby. 
[23] 


DABBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

At  that  minute  Terry,  the  cock,  flapped  his  wings 
and  crowed.  In  a  flash  there  sprang  into  full  view 
the  crowd  of  Good  People — dukes,  earls,  princes,  qual- 
ity and  commoners,  with  their  ladies — jammed  thick 
together  about  the  house ;  every  one  of  them  with  his 
head  trun  back  bawling  and  crying,  and  tears  as  big 
as  pigeon-eggs  rouling  down  their  cheeks. 

A  few  feet  away,  on  a  straw-pile  in  the  barnyard, 
stood  the  King,  his  goold  crown  tilted  on  the  side  of 
his  head,  his  long  green  cloak  about  him  and  his  rod 
in  his  hand,  but  thremblin'  all  over. 

In  the  middle  of  the  crowd,  but  towering  high  above 
them  all,  stood  Maureen  McGibney  in  her  cloak  of 
green  an*  goold,  her  purty  brown  hair  fallin'  down 
her  chowlders,  an'  she — the  crafty  villain — cryin'  an* 
bawlin'  an'  abusin'  Darby  with  the  best  of  them. 

"  What'll  you  have  an'  let  them  go  ?  "  says  the 
King. 

"  First  an'  foremost,"  says  Darby,  "  take  yer  spell 
off  that  slip  of  a  girl  there,  an'  send  her  into  the 
house." 

In  a  second  Maureen  was  standing  inside  the  door, 
her  both  arms  about  Bob's  neck  and  her  head  on  his 
collar-bone. 

[24] 


DARBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

What  they  said  to  aich  other,  an'  what  they  done 
in  the  way  of  embracin'  an'  kissin'  an'  cryin'  I  won't 
take  time  in  telling  you. 

"  Next,"  says  Darby,  "  send  back  Rosie  and  the 
pigs." 

"  I  expected  that,"  says  the  King.  And  at  those 
words  they  saw  a  black  bunch  coming  through  the  air, 
and  in  a  few  seconds  Rosie  and  the  three  pigs  walked 
into  the  stable. 

"  Now,"  says  Darby,  "  promise  in  the  name  of  Ould 
Nick  "  ('tis  by  him  the  Good  People  swear)  "  never 
to  moil  nor  meddle  agin  with  anyone  or  anything 
from  this  parish." 

The  King  was  fair  put  out  by  this.  Howsomever, 
he  said  at  last :  "  You  ongratef  ul  scoundrel,  in  the 
name  of  Ould  Nick  I  promise." 

"  So  far,  so  good,"  says  Darby ;  "  but  the  worst  is 
yet  to  come.  Now  you  must  raylase  from  your  spell 
every  sowl  you've  stole  from  this  parish ;  and  besides, 
you  must  send  me  two  hundhred  pounds  in  goold." 

Well,  the  King  gave  a  roar  of  anger  that  was  heard 
in  the  next  barony. 

"  Ye  high-handed,  hard-hearted  robber,"  he  says, 
"  I'll  never  consent !  "  says  he. 
[25] 


DARBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

"  Plase  yeself,"  says  Darby.  "  I  see  Father  Cas- 
«idy  comin'  down  the  hedge,"  he  says,  "  an'  he  has  a 
prayer  for  ye  all  in  his  book  that'll  burn  ye  up  like 
wisps  of  sthraw  if  he  ever  catches  ye  here,"  says 
Darby. 

With  that  the  roaring  and  bawling  was  pitiful  to 
hear,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  bag  with  two  hundhred 
goold  sovereigns  in  it  was  trun  at  Darby's  threshold ; 
and  fifty  people,  young  an'  some  of  them  ould,  flew 
over  an'  stood  beside  the  King.  Some  of  them  had 
spent  years  with  the  fairies.  Their  relatives  thought 
them  dead  and  buried.  They  were  the  lost  ones  from 
that  parish. 

With  that  Darby  pulled  the  bit  of  twine  again, 
opening  the  trap,  and  it  wasn't  long  until  every  fairy 
was  gone. 

The  green  coat  of  the  last  one  was  hardly  out  of 
sight  when,  sure  enough,  who  should  come  up  but 
Father  Cassidy,  his  book  in  his  hand.  He  looked  at 
the  fifty  people  who  had  been  with  the  fairies  standin' 
there — the  poor  crathures — thremblin'  an'  wondherin' 
an'  afeard  to  go  to  their  homes. 

Darby  tould  him  what  had  happened. 

"  Ye  foolish  man,"  says  the  priest,  "  you  could 
[26] 


DARBY    OGILL     AND     THE     GOOD    PEOPLE 

have  got  out  every  poor  presoner  that's  locked  in 
Sleive-na-mon,  let  alone  those  from  this  parish." 

One  could  have  scraped  with  a  knife  the  surprise  off 
Darby's  face. 

"  Would  yer  Reverence  have  me  let  out  the  Cork- 
onians,  the  Connaught  men,  and  the  Fardowns,  I  ask 
ye?"  he  says,  hotly.  "When  Mrs.  Malowney  there 
goes  home  and  finds  that  Tim  has  married  the  Widow 
Hogan,  ye'll  say  I  let  out  too  many,  even  of  this  par- 
ish, I'm  thinkin'." 

"  But,"  says  the  priest,  "  ye  might  have  got  two 
hundred  pounds  for  aich  of  us." 

"  If  aich  had  two  hundhred  pounds,  what  comfort 
would  I  have  in  being  rich  ?  "  axed  Darby  agin.  "  To 
enjoy  well  being  rich  there  should  be  plenty  of  poor," 
says  Darby. 

"  God  forgive  ye,  ye  selfish  man ! "  says  Father 
Cassidy. 

"  There's  another  rayson  besides,"  says  Darby. 
"  I  never  got  betther  nor  friendlier  thratement  than 
I  had  from  the  Good  People.  An'  the  divil  a 
hair  of  their  heads  I'd  hurt  more  than  need  be,"  he 
says. 

Some  way  or  other  the  King  heard  of  this  saying, 
[27] 


DARBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 

an'  was  so  mightily  pleased  that  the  next  night  a  jug 
of  the  finest  poteen  was  left  at  Darby's  door. 

After  that,  indade,  many's  the  winter  night,  when 
the  snow  lay  so  heavy  that  no  neighbour  was  stirrin', 
and  when  Bridget  and  the  childher  were  in  bed,  Darby 
sat  by  the  fire,  a  noggin  of  hot  punch  in  his  hand,  ar- 
gying  an'  getting  news  of  the  whole  worruld.  A  lit- 
tle man  with  a  goold  crown  on  his  head,  a  green  cloak 
on  his  back,  and  one  foot  trun  over  the  other,  sat  fer- 
ninst  him  by  the  hearth. 


[28] 


DARBY  O'GiLL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 


DAUBY  O'GiLL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 


J.  HE  news  that  Darby  O'Gill  had  spint  six  months 
with  the  Good  People  spread  fast  and  far  and  wide. 

At  fair  or  hurlin'  or  market  he  would  be  backed  be 
a  crowd  agin  some  convaynient  wall  and  there  for 
hours  men,  women,  and  childher,  with  jaws  dhroppin' 
and  eyes  bulgin'd,  stand  f erninst  him  listening  to  half- 
frightened  questions  or  to  bould,  mystarious  answers. 

Alway,  though,  one  bit  of  wise  adwise  inded  his 
discoorse :  "  Nayther  make  nor  moil  nor  meddle  with 
the  fairies,"  Darby'd  say.  "  If  you're  going  along 
the  lonely  boreen  at  night  and  you  hear,  from  some 
fairy  fort,  a  sound  of  fiddles,  or  of  piping,  or  of  sweet 
woices  singing,  or  of  little  feet  patthering  in  the  dance, 
don't  turn  your  head,  but  say  your  prayers  an'  hould 
on  your  way.  The  pleasures  the  Good  People'll  share 
with  you  have  a  sore  sorrow  hid  in  them,  an'  the  gifts 
they'll  offer  are  only  made  to  break  hearts  with." 

Things  went  this  a-way  till  one  day  in  the  market, 
[31] 


DARBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

over  among  the  cows,  Maurteen  Cavanaugh,  the 
schoolmasther — a  cross-faced,  argif ying  ould  man  he 
was — conthradicted  Darby  pint  blank.  "  Stay  a  bit," 
says  Maurteen,  catching  Darby  by  the  coat-collar. 
"  You  forget  about  the  little  fairy  cobbler,  the  Lepre- 
chaun," he  says.  "  You  can't  deny  that  to  catch  the 
Leprechaun  is  great  luck  entirely.  If  one  only  fix 
the  glance  of  his  eye  on  the  cobbler,  that  look  makes 
the  fairy  a  presner — one  can  do  anything  with  him 
as  long  as  a  human  look  covers  the  little  lad — and 
he'll  give  the  favours  of  three  wishes  to  buy  his  free- 
dom," says  Maurteen. 

At  that  Darby,  smiling  high  and  knowledgeable, 
made  answer  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd. 

"  God  help  your  sinse,  honest  man ! "  he  says. 
"  Around  the  favours  of  thim  same  three  wishes  is  a 
bog  of  thricks  an'  cajoleries  and  con-ditions  that'll 
defayt  the  wisest. 

"  First  of  all,  if  the  look  be  taken  from  the  little 

cobbler  for  as  much  as  the  wink  of  an  eye,  he's  gone 

forever,"  he  says.     "  Man  alive,  even  when  he  does 

-  grant  the  favours  of  the  three  wishes,  you're  not  safe, 

for,  if  you  tell  anyone  you've  seen  the  Leprechaun, 

the  favours  melt  like  snow,  or  if  you  make  a  fourth 

[32] 


DAEBY     O     GII.I,     AND     THE     LEPBECHAUN 

wish  that  day — whiff !  they  turn  to  smoke.  Take  my 
adwice — nayther  make  nor  moil  nor  meddle  with  the 
fairies." 

"  Thrue  for  ye,"  spoke  up  long  Pether  McCarthy, 
siding  in  with  Darby.  "  Didn't  Barney  McBride,  on 
his  way  to  early  mass  one  May  morning,  catch  the 
fairy  cobbler  sewing  an'  workin'  away  under  a 
hedge.  '  Have  a  pinch  of  snuff,  Barney  agra,'  says 
the  Leprechaun,  handing  up  the  little  snuff-box.  But, 
mind  ye,  when  my  poor  Barney  bint  to  take  a  thumb 
an'  finger  full,  what  did  the  little  villain  do  but 
fling  the  box,  snuff  arid  all,  into  Barney's  face.  An* 
thin,  whilst  the  poor  lad  was  winkin'  and  blinkin',  the 
Leprechaun  gave  one  leap  and  was  lost  in  the  reeds. 

"  Thin,  again,  there  was  Peggy  O'Rourke,  who 
captured  him  fair  an'  square  in  a  hawthorn-bush.  In 
spite  of  his  wiles  she  wrung  from  him  the  favours  of 
the  three  wishes.  Knowing,  of  course,  that  if  she 
towld  of  what  had  happened  to  her  the  spell  was 
broken  and  the  wishes  wouldn't  come  thrue,  she  hur- 
ried home,  aching  and  longing  to  in  some  way  find 
from  her  husband  Andy  what  \\ishes  she'd  make. 

"  Throwing  open  her  own  door,  she  said,  *  What 
would  ye  wish  for  most  in  the  world,  Andy  dear?  Tell 
[33] 


DARBY     O     GILL    AND     THE     L  E  P  R  E  C  H  A  IT  N 

me  an'  your  wish'll  come  thrue,'  says  she.  A  peddler 
was  crying  his  wares  out  in  the  lane.  *  Lanterns,  tin 
lanterns ! '  cried  the  peddler.  *  I  wish  I  had  one  of 
thim  lanterns,'  says  Andy,  careless,  and  bendin'  over 
to  get  a  coal  for  his  pipe,  when,  lo  and  behold,  there 
was  the  lantern  in  his  hand. 

"  Well,  so  vexed  was  Peggy  that  one  of  her  fine 
wishes  should  be  wasted  on  a  palthry  tin  lantern,  that 
she  lost  all  patience  with  him.  '  Why  thin,  bad  scran 
to  you ! '  says  she — not  mindin'  her  own  words 
— '  I  wish  the  lantern  was  fastened  to  the  ind  of  your 
nose ! ' 

"  The  word  wasn't  well  out  of  her  mouth  till  the 
lantern  was  hung  swinging  from  the  ind  of  Andy's 
nose  in  a  way  that  the  wit  of  man  couldn't  loosen. 
It  took  the  third  and  last  of  Peggy's  wishes  to  relayse 
Andy." 

"  Look  at  that,  now ! "  cried  a  dozen  woices  from 
the  admiring  crowd.  "  Darby  said  so  from  the 
first." 

Well,  after  a  time  people  used  to  come  from  miles 

around  to  see  Darby  and  sit  undher  the  sthraw-stack 

beside  the  stable  to  adwise  with  our  hayro  about  their 

most  important  business — what  was  the  best  time  for 

[34] 


DARBY     O     GILL    AND     THE     LEPRECHAUN 

the  settin'  of  bins,  or  what  was  good  to  cure  colic 
in  childher,  an'  things  like  that. 

Any  man  so  parsecuted  with  admiration  an'  hayro- 
fication  might  aisily  feel  his  chest  swell  out  a  bit,  so 
it's  no  wondher  that  Darby  set  himself  up  for  a 
knowledgeable  man. 

He  took  to  talkin'  slow  an'  shuttin'  one  eye  whin  he 
listened,  and  he  walked  with  a  knowledgeable  twist  to 
his  chowlders.  He  grew  monsthrously  fond  of  fairs 
and  public  gatherings  where  people  made  much  of 
him,  and  he  lost  every  ounce  of  liking  he  ever  had  for 
hard  worruk. 

Things  wint  on  with  him  in  this  way  from  bad  to 
worse,  and  where  it  would  have  inded  no  man  knows, 
if  one  unlucky  morning  he  hadn't  rayfused  to  bring 
in  a  creel  of  turf  his  wife  Bridget  had  axed  him  to 
fetch  her.  The  unfortunate  man  said  it  was  no  work 
for  the  likes  of  him. 

The  last  word  was  still  on  Darby's  lips  whin  he 
rayalised  his  mistake,  an'  he'd  have  given  the  world 
to  have  the  sayin'  back  again. 

For  a  minute  you  could  have  heard  a  pin  dhrop. 
Bridget,  instead  of  being  in  a  hurry  to  begin  at 
him,  was  crool  dayliberate.  She  planted  herself 
[35] 


DAEBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  LEPBECHAUN 

in  the  door,  her  two  fists  on  her  hips,  an'  her  lips 
shut. 

The  look  Julius  Sayser'd  trow  at  a  servant-girl 
he'd  caught  stealing  sugar  from  the  rile  cupboard 
was  the  glance  she  waved  up  and  down  from  Darby's 
toes  to  his  head,  and  from  his  head  to  his  brogues 
agin. 

Thin  she  began  an'  talked  steady  as  a  fall  of  hail 
that  has  now  an'  then  a  bit  of  lightning  an'  tunder 
mixed  in  it. 

The  knowledgeable  man  stood  purtendin'  to  brush 
his  hat  and  tryin'  to  look  brave,  but  the  heart  inside 
of  him  was  meltin'  like  butther. 

Bridget  began  aisily  be  carelessly  mentioning  a  few 
of  Darby's  best  known  wakenesses.  Afther  that  she 
took  up  some  of  them  not  so  well  known,  being  ones 
Darby  himself  had  sayrious  doubts  about  having  at 
all.  But  on  these  last  she  was  more  savare  than  on 
the  first.  Through  it  all  he  daren't  say  a  word — he 
only  smiled  lofty  and  bitther. 

'Twas  but  natural  next  for  Bridget  to  explain  what 

a  poor  crachure  her  husband  was  the  day  she  got  him, 

an'  whaf.  she  might  have  been  if  she  had  married 

ayther  one  of  the  six  others  who  had  axed  her.     The 

[36] 


DABBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  LEPBECHAUN 

step  for  her  was  a  little  one,  thin,  to  the  shortcom- 
ings and  misfortunes  of  his  blood  relaytions,  which 
she  folljed  back  to  the  blaggardisms  of  his  fourth 
cousin,  Phelim  McFadden. 

Even  in  his  misery  poor  Darby  couldn't  but  marvel 
at  her  wondherful  memory. 

By  the  time  she  began  talking  of  her  own  family, 
and  especially  about  her  Aunt  Honoria  O'Shaugh- 
nessy,  who  had  once  shook  hands  with  a  Bishop,  and 
who  in  the  rebellion  of  '98  had  trun  a  brick  at  a  Lord 
Liftenant,  whin  he  was  riding  by,  Darby  was  as 
wilted  and  as  forlorn-looking  as  a  roosther  caught  out 
in  the  winther  rain. 

He  lost  more  pride  in  those  few  minutes  than  it  had 
taken  months  to  gather  an'  hoard.  It  kept  falling 
in  great  drops  from  his  forehead. 

Just  as  Bridget  was  lading  up  to  what  Father  Cas- 
sidy  calls  a  pur-roar-ration — that  being  the  part  of 
your  wife's  discoorse  whin,  after  telling  you  all  she's 
done  for  you,  and  all  she's  stood  from  your  relaytions, 
she  breaks  down  and  cries,  and  so  smothers  you  en- 
tirely— just  as  she  was  coming  to  that,  I  say,  Darby 
scrooged  his  caubeen  down  on  his  head,  stuck  his 
fingers  in  his  two  ears,  and,  making  one  grand  rush 
[37] 


DARBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

through  the  door,  bolted  as  fast  as  his  legs  could 
carry  him  down  the  road  toward  Sleive-na-mon  Moun- 
tains. 

Bridget  stood  on  the  step  looking  afther  him,  too 
surprised  for  a  word.  With  his  fingers  still  in  his 
ears,  so  that  he  couldn't  hear  her  commands  to  turn 
back,  he  ran  without  stopping  till  he  came  to  the 
willow-tree  near  Joey  Hooligan's  forge.  There  he 
slowed  down  to  fill  his  lungs  with  the  fresh,  sweet  air. 

'Twas  one  of  those  warm-hearted,  laughing  au- 
tumn days  which  steals  for  a  while  the  bonnet  and 
shawl  of  the  May.  The  sun,  from  a  sky  of  feathery 
whiteness,  laned  over,  telling  jokes  to  the  worruld, 
an'  the  goold  harvest-fields  and  purple  hills,  lasy  and 
continted,  laughed  back  at  the  sun.  Even  the  black- 
bird flying  over  the  haw-tree  looked  down  an'  sang 
to  those  below,  "  God  save  all  here ;  "  an'  the  linnet 
from  her  bough  answered  back  quick  an'  sweet,  "  God 
save  you  kindly,  sir !  " 

With  such  pleasant  sights  and  sounds  an'  twitter- 
ings at  every  side,  our  hayro  didn't  feel  the  time  pass- 
ing till  he  was  on  top  of  the  first  hill  of  the  Sleive- 
na-mon  Mountains,  which,  as  everyone  knows,  is  called 
the  Pig's  Head. 

[38] 


DAUBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

It  wasn't  quite  lonesome  enough  on  the  Pig's  Head, 
so  our  hayro  plunged  into  the  walley  an'  climbed  the 
second  mountain—  -the  Divil's  Pillow — where  'twas 
lonesome  and  desarted  enough  to  shuit  anyone. 

Beneath  the  shade  of  a  three,  for  the  days  was 
warm,  he  sat  himself  down  in  the  long,  sweet  grass, 
lit  his  pipe,  and  let  his  mind  go  free.  But,  as  he  did, 
his  thoughts  rose  together  like  a  flock  of  fright- 
ened, angry  pheasants,  an'  whirred  back  to  the 
owdacious  things  Bridget  had  said  about  his  rela- 
tions. 

Wasn't  she  the  mendageous,  humbrageous  woman, 
he  thought,  to  say  such  things  about  as  illegant  stock, 
as  the  O'Gills  and  the  O'Gradys? 

Why,  Wullum  O'Gill,  Darby's  uncle,  at  that  min- 
ute, was  head  butler  at  Castle  Brophy,  and  was  known 
far  an'  wide  as  being  one  of  the  foinest  scholars  an' 
as  having  the  most  beautiful  pair  of  legs  in  all  Ire- 
land! 

This  same  Wullum  O'Gill  had  tould  Bridget  in 
Darby's  own  hearing,  on  a  day  when  the  three  were 
going  through  the  great  picture-gallery  at  Castle 
Brophy,  that  the  O'Gills  at  one  time  had  been  Kings 
in  Ireland. 

[39] 


DABBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

Darby  never  since  could  raymember  whether  this 
time  was  before  the  flood  or  afther  the  flood.  Bridget 
said  it  was  durin'  the  flood,  but  surely  that  sayin'  was 
nonsinse. 

Howsumever,  Darby  knew  his  Uncle  Wullum  was 
right,  for  he  often  felt  in  himself  the  signs  of  great- 
ness. And  now  as  he  sat  alone  on  the  grass  he  said 
out  loud : 

"  If  I  had  me  rights  I'd  be  doing  nothing  all  day 
long  but  sittin'  on  a  throne,  an'  playin'  games 
of  forty-five  with  the  Lord  Liftenant  an'  some  of  me 
generals.  There  never  was  a  lord  that  likes  good 
ating  or  dhrinking  betther  nor  I,  or  who  hates  worse 
to  get  up  airly  in  the  morning.  That  last  disloike 
I'm  tould  is  a  great  sign  entirely  of  gentle  blood  the 
worruld  over,"  says  he. 

As  for  the  wife's  people,  the  O'Hagans  an'  the 
O'Shaughnessys,  well — they  were  no  great  shakes,  he 
said  to  himself,  at  laste  so  far  as  looks  were  consarned. 
All  the  handsomeness  in  Darby's  childher  came  from 
his  own  side  of  the  family.  Even  Father  Cassidy  said 
the  childher  took  afther  the  O'Gills. 

"  If  I  were  rich,"  said  Darby,  to  a  lazy  ould  bum- 
ble-bee who  was  droning  an'  tumbling  in  front  of  him, 
[40] 


DABBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

"  I'd  have  a  castle  like  Castle  Brophy,  with  a  great 
picture-gallery  in  it.  On  one  wall  I'd  put  the  picture 
of  the  O'Gills  and  the  O'Gradys,  and  on  the  wall  fer- 
ninst  them  I'd  have  the  O'Hagans  an'  the  O'Shaugh- 
nessys." 

At  that  ideah  his  heart  bubbled  in  a  new  and  fierce 
deloight.  "  Bridget's  people,"  he  says  agin,  scowl- 
ing at  the  bee,  "  would  look  four  times  as  common  as 
they  raylly  are,  whin  they  were  compared  in  that  way 
with  my  own  relations.  An'  whenever  Bridget  got 
rampageous  I'd  take  her  in  and  show  her  the  differ- 
ence betwixt  the  two  clans,  just  to  punish  her,  so  I 
would." 

How  long  the  lad  sat  that  way  warming  the  cowld 
thoughts  of  his  heart  with  drowsy,  pleasant  dhrames 
an'  misty  longings  he  don't  rightly  know,  whin — tack, 
tack,  tack,  tack,  came  the  busy  sound  of  a  little  ham- 
mer from  the  other  side  of  a  fallen  oak. 

"  Be  jingo !  "  he  says  to  himself  with  a  start,  "  'tis 
the  Leprechaun  that's  in  it." 

In  a  second  he  was  on  his  hands  an'  knees,  the  tails 
of  his  coat  flung  across  his  back,  an'  he  crawling 
softly  toward  the  sound  of  the  hammer.  Quiet  as  a 
mouse  he  lifted  himself  up  on  the  mossy  log  to  look 


DABBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

over,  and  there  before  his  two  popping  eyes  was  a 
sight  of  wondheration. 

Sitting  on  a  white  stone  an'  working  away  like 
fury,  hammering  pegs  into  a  little  red  shoe,  half  the 
size  of  your  thumb,  was  a  bald-headed  ould  cobbler 
of  about  twice  the  hoight  of  your  hand.  On  the  top 
of  a  round,  snub  nose  was  perched  a  pair  of  horn- 
rimmed spectacles,  an'  a  narrow  fringe  of  iron-gray 
whuskers  grew  undher  his  stubby  chin.  The  brown 
leather  apron  he  wore  was  so  long  that  it  covered  his 
green  knee-breeches  an'  almost  hid  the  knitted  gray 
stockings. 

The  Leprechaun — for  it  was  he  indade — as  he 
worked,  mumbled  an'  mutthered  in  great  discontent: 

"  Oh,  haven't  I  the  hard,  hard  luck,"  he  said.  "  I'll 
never  have  thim  done  in  time  for  her  to  dance  in  to- 
night. So,  thin,  I'll  be  kilt  entirely,"  says  he.  "  Was 
there  ever  another  quane  of  the  fairies  as  wearing  on 
shoes  an'  brogues  an'  dancin'-slippers  ?  Haven't  I 
the — "  Looking  up,  he  saw  Darby. 

"  The  top  of  the  day  to  you,  dacint  man ! "  says 

the  cobbler,  jumpin'  up.      Giving  a  sharp  cry,  he 

pinted    quick   at   Darby's    stomach.      "  But,    wirra, 

wirra,  what's  that  woolly,  ugly  thing  you  have  crawl- 

[42] 


DARBY  O'GILL  AND   THE   LEPRECHAUN 

ing  an'  creepin'  on  your  weskit?  "  he  said,  purtendin' 
to  be  all  excited. 

"  Sorra  thing  on  my  weskit,"  answered  Darby,  cool 
as  ice,  "  or  anywhere  else  that'll  make  me  take  my 
two  bright  eyes  off'n  you — not  for  a  second,"  says  he. 

"Well!  Well!  Will  you  look  at  that,  now?" 
laughed  the  cobbler.  "  Mark  how  quick  an'  handy  he 
took  me  up !  Will  you  have  a  pinch  of  snuff,  clever 
man  ?  "  he  axed,  houlding  up  the  little  box. 

"  Is  it  the  same  snuff  you  gave  Barney  McBride 
a  while  ago?  "  axed  Darby,  sarcastic.  "  Lave  off  your 
foolishness,"  says  our  hayro,  growin'  fierce,  "  and 
grant  me  at  once  the  favours  of  the  three  wishes,  or 
I'll  have  you  smoking  like  a  herring  in  my  own  chim- 
ney before  nightfall,"  says  he. 

At  that  the  Leprechaun,  seeing  that  he  but  wasted 
time  on  so  knowledgeable  a  man  as  Darby  O'Gill,  sur- 
rendhered,  and  granted  the  favours  of  the  three 
wishes. 

"  What  is  it  you  ask  ?  "  says  the  cobbler,  himself 
turning  on  a  sudden  very  sour  an'  sullen. 

"  First  an'  foremost,"  says  Darby,  "  I  want  a  home 
of  my  ansisthers,  an'  it  must  be  a  castle  like  Castle 
Brophy,  with  pictures  of  my  kith  an'  kin  on  the  wall, 
[43] 


DAEBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

and  then  facing  them  pictures  of  my  wife  Bridget's 
kith  an'  kin  on  the  other  wall." 

"  That  favour  I  give  ye,  that  wish  I  grant  ye," 
says  the  fairy,  making  the  shape  of  a  castle  on  the 
ground  with  his  awl. 

"  What  next  ?  "  he  grunted. 

"  I  want  goold  enough  for  me  an'  my  generations 
to  enjoy  in  grandeur  the  place  forever." 

"  Always  the  goold,"  sneered  the  little  man,  bend- 
ing to  dhraw  with  his  awl  on  the  turf  the  shape  of  a 
purse. 

"  Now  for  your  third  and  last  wish.  Have  a 
care !  " 

"  I  want  the  castle  set  on  this  hill — the  Divil's  Pil- 
low— where  we  two  stand,"  says  Darby.  Then  sweep- 
ing with  his  arm,  he  says,  "  I  want  the  land  about  to 
be  my  demesne." 

The  Leprechaun  stuck  his  awl  on  the  ground. 
"  That  wish  I  give  you,  that  wish  I  grant  you,"  he 
says.  With  that  he  straightened  himself  up,  and 
grinning  most  aggravaytin'  the  while,  he  looked 
Darby  over  from  top  to  toe.  "  You're  a  foine, 
knowledgeable  man,  but  have  a  care  of  the  fourth 
wish !  "  says  he. 

[44] 


DABBY   O'GILL   AND   THE   LEPRECHAUN 

Bekase  there  was  more  of  a  challenge  than 
friendly  warning  in  what  the  small  lad  said,  Darby 
snapped  his  fingers  at  him  an'  cried: 

"  Have  no  fear,  little  man !  If  I  got  all  Ireland 
ground  for  making  a  fourth  wish,  however  small,  be- 
fore midnight  I'd  not  make  it.  I'm  going  home 
now  to  fetch  Bridget  an'  the  childher,  and  the  only 
fear  or  unaisiness  I  have  is  that  you'll  not  keep  your 
word,  so  as  to  have  the  castle  here  ready  before  us 
when  I  come  back." 

"  Oho !  I'm  not  to  be  thrusted,  amn't  I  ?  "  screeched 
the  little  lad,  flaring  into  a  blazing  passion.  He 
jumped  upon  the  log  that  v:as  betwixt  them,  an'  with 
one  fist  behind  his  back  shook  the  other  at  Darby. 

"  You  ignorant,  auspicious-minded  blaggard !  " 
says  he.  "  How  dare  the  likes  of  you  say  the  likes  of 
that  to  the  likes  of  me !  "  cried  the  cobbler.  "  I'd  have 
you  to  know,"  he  says,  "  that  I  had  a  repitation  for 
truth  an'  voracity  ayquil  if  not  shuperior  to  the  best, 
before  you  were  born ! "  he  shouted.  "  I'll  take  no  high 
talk  from  a  man  that's  afraid  to  give  words  to  his  own 
wife  whin  she's  in  a  tantrum ! "  says  the  Leprechaun. 

"  It's  aisy  to  know  you're  not  a  married  man,"  says 

Darby,  mighty  scornful,  "  bekase  if  you " 

[45] 


DABBY  O   GULL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

The  lad  stopped  short,  forgetting  what  he  was 
going  to  say  in  his  surprise  an'  aggaytation,  for  the 
far  side  of  the  mountain  was  waving  up  an'  down  be- 
fore his  eyes  like  a  great  green  blanket  that  is  being 
shook  by  two  women,  while  at  the  same  time  high 
spots  of  turf  on  the  hillside  toppled  sidewise  to  level 
themselves  up  with  the  low  places.  The  enchantment 
had  already  begun  to  make  things  ready  for  the  cas- 
tle. A  dozen  foine  threes  that  stood  in  a  little  grove 
bent  their  heads  quickly  together,  and  thin  by  some 
inwisible  hand  they  were  plucked  up  by  the  roots  an' 
dhropped  aside  much  the  same  as  a  man  might  grasp 
a  handful  of  weeds  an'  fling  them  from  his  garden. 

The  ground  under  the  knowledgeable  man's  feet 
began  to  rumble  an'  heave.  He  waited  for  no  more. 
With  a  cry  that  was  half  of  gladness  an'  half  of  fear, 
he  turned  on  his  heel  an'  started  on  a  run  down  into 
the  walley,  leaving  the  little  cobbler  standing  on  the 
log,  shouting  abuse  after  him  an'  ballyraggin'  him 
as  he  ran. 

So  excited  was  Darby  that,  going  up  the  Pig's 

Head,  he  was  nearly  run  over  by  a  crowd  of  great 

brown  building  stones  which  were  moving  down  slow 

an'  ordherly  like  a  flock  of  driven  sheep, — but  they 

[46] 


DABBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

moved  without  so  much  as  bruising  a  blade  of  grass 
or  bendin'  a  twig,  as  they  came. 

Only  once,  and  that  at  the  top  of  the  Pig's  Head, 
he  trew  a  look  back. 

The  Divil's  Pillow  was  in  a  great  commotion;  a 
whirlwind  was  sweeping  over  it — whether  of  dust  or 
of  mist  he  couldn't  tell. 

Afther  this,  Darby  never  looked  back  again  or  to 
the  right  or  the  left  of  him,  but  kept  straight  on  till 
he  found  himself,  panting  and  puffing,  at  his  own 
kitchen  door.  'Twas  tin  minutes  before  he  could 
spake,  but  at  last,  whin  he  tould  Bridget  to  make 
ready  herself  and  the  childher  to  go  up  to  the  Divil's 
Pillow  with  him,  for  once  in  her  life  that  raymark- 
able  woman,  without  axing,  How  comes  it  so,  What 
rayson  have  you,  or  Why  should  I  do  it,  set  to  work 
washing  the  childher's  faces. 

Maybe  she  dabbed  a  little  more  soap  in  their  eyes 
than  was  needful,  for  'twas  a  habit  she  had; 
though  this  time  if  she  did,  not  a  whimper  broke 
from  the  little  hayros.  For  the  matther  of  that,  not 
one  word,  good,  bad  or  indifferent,  did  herself  spake 
till  the  whole  family  were  trudging  down  the  lane  two 
by  two,  marching  like  sojers. 
[47] 


DARBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

As  they  came  near  the  first  hill  along  its  sides  the 
evening  twilight  turned  from  purple  to  brown,  and 
at  the  top  of  the  Pig's  Head  the  darkness  of  a  black 
night  swooped  suddenly  down  on  them.  Darby  hur- 
ried on  a  step  or  two  ahead,  an'  resting  his  hand  upon 
the  large  rock  that  crowns  the  hill,  looked  anxiously 
over  to  the  Divil's  Pillow.  Although  he  was  ready  for 
something  foine,  yet  the  greatness  of  the  foineness 
that  met  his  gaze  knocked  the  breath  out  of  him. 

Across  the  deep  walley,  and  on  top  of  the  second 
mountain,  he  saw  lined  against  the  evening  sky  the 
roof  of  an  imminse  castle,  with  towers  an'  parrypets 
an'  battlements.  Undher  the  towers  a  thousand  sul- 
len windows  glowed  red  in  the  black  walls.  Castle 
Brophy  couldn't  hould  a  candle  to  it. 

"  Behold !  "  says  Darby,  flinging  out  his  arm,  and 
turning  to  his  wife,  who  had  just  come  up — "  behold 
the  castle  of  my  ansisthers  who  were  my  forefathers !  " 

"  How,"  says  Bridget,  quick  and  scornful — "  how 
could  your  aunt's  sisters  be  your  four  fathers  ?  " 

What  Darby  was  going  to  say  to  her  he  don't  just 
raymember,  for  at  that  instant  from  the  right-hand 
side  of  the  mountain  came  a  cracking  of  whips,  a  rat- 
tling of  wheels,  an'  the  rush  of  horses,  and,  lo  and 
[48] 


DABBY     O     GILL    AND     THE     LEPRECHAUN 

behold!  a  great  dark  coach  with  flashing  lamps,  and 
drawn  by  four  coal-black  horses,  dashed  up  the  hill 
and  stopped  beside  them.  Two  shadowy  men  were  on 
the  driver's  box. 

"  Is  this  Lord  Darby  O'Gill?  "  axed  one  of  them, 
in  a  deep,  muffled  woice.  Before  Darby  could  reply 
Bridget  took  the  words  out  of  his  mouth. 

"  It  is !  "  she  cried,  in  a  kind  of  a  half  cheer,  "  an' 
Lady  O'Gill  an'  the  childher." 

"  Then  hurry  up !  "  says  the  coachman.  "  Your 
supper's  gettin'  cowld." 

Without  waiting  for  anyone  Bridget  flung  open 
the  carriage-door,  an'  pushin'  Darby  aside  jumped 
in  among  the  cushions.  Darby,  his  heart  sizzlin'  with 
vexation  at  her  audaciousness,  lifted  in  one  after  an- 
other the  childher,  and  then  got  in  himself. 

He  couldn't  undherstand  at  all  the  change  in  his 
wife,  for  she  had  always  been  the  odherliest,  modestist 
woman  in  the  parish. 

Well,  he'd  no  sooner  shut  the  door  than  crack  went 
the  whip,  the  horses  gave  a  spring,  the  carriage 
jumped,  and  down  the  hill  they  went.  For  fastness 
there  was  never  another  carriage-ride  like  that  before 
nor  since.  Darby  hildt  tight  with  both  hands  to  the 
[49] 


DARBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

window,  his  face  pressed  against  the  glass.  He 
couldn't  tell  whether  the  horses  were  only  flying  or 
whether  the  coach  was  falling  down  the  hill  into  the 
walley.  By  the  hollow  feeling  in  his  stomach  he 
thought  they  were  falling.  He  was  striving  to  think 
of  some  prayers  when  there  came  a  terrible  joult 
which  sint  his  two  heels  against  the  roof  an'  his  head 
betwixt  the  cushions.  As  he  righted  himself  the 
wheels  began  to  grate  on  a  gravelled  road,  an'  plainly 
they  were  dashing  up  the  side  of  the  second  moun- 
tain. 

Even  so,  they  couldn't  have  gone  far  whin  the  car- 
riage dhrew  up  in  a  flurry,  an'  he  saw  through  the 
gloom  a  high  iron  gate  being  slowly  opened. 

"  Pass  on,"  said  a  voice  from  somewhere  in  the 
shadows ;  "  their  supper's  getting  cowld." 

As  they  flew  undher  the  great  archway  Darby 
had  a  glimpse  of  the  thing  which  had  opened  the  gate, 
and  had  said  their  supper  was  getting  cowld.  It  was 
standing  on  its  hind  legs — in  the  darkness  he  couldn't 
be  quite  sure  as  to  its  shape,  but  it  was  ayther  a  Bear 
or  a  Loin. 

His  mind  was  in  a  pondher  about  this  when,  with 
a  swirl  an*  a  bump,  the  carriage  stopped  another  time, 
[50] 


DARBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

an'  now  it  stood  before  a  broad  flight  of  stone  steps 
which  led  up  to  the  main  door  of  the  castle.  Darby, 
half  afraid,  peering  out  through  the  darkness,  saw  a 
square  of  light  high  above  him  which  came  from  the 
open  hall  door.  Three  sarvants  in  livery  stood  wait- 
ing on  the  thrashol. 

"  Make  haste,  make  haste !  "  says  one,  in  a  doleful 
voice ;  "  their  supper's  gettin'  cowld." 

Hearing  these  words,  Bridget  imagetly  bounced 
out,  an'  was  half  way  up  the  steps  before  Darby  could 
ketch  her  an'  hould  her  till  the  childher  came  up. 

"  I  never  in  all  my  life  saw  her  so  owdacious,"  he 
says,  half  cryin',  an'  linkin'  her  arm  to  keep  her  back, 
an'  thin,  with  the  childher  follying  two  by  two,  ac- 
cording to  size,  the  whole  family  payraded  up  the 
steps,  till  Darby,  with  a  gasp  of  deloight,  stopped  on 
the  thrashol  of  a  splendid  hall.  From  a  high  ceiling 
hung  great  flags  from  every  nation  an'  domination, 
which  swung  and  swayed  in  the  dazzlin'  light. 

Two  lines  of  men  and  maid  servants  dhressed  in 
silks  an'  satins  an'  brocades,  stood  facing  aich  other, 
bowing  an'  smiling  an'  wavin'  their  hands  in  welcome. 
The  two  lines  stretched  down  to  the  goold  stairway  at 
the  far  ind  of  the  hall. 

[51] 


DABBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

For  half  of  one  minute  Darby,  every  eye  in  his  head 
as  big  as  a  tay-cup,  stood  hesitaytin'.  Thin  he  said, 
"  Why  should  it  flutther  me  ?  Arrah,  ain't  it  all  mine  ? 
Aren't  all  these  people  in  me  pay?  I'll  engage  it's  a 
pritty  penny  all  this  grandeur  is  costing  me  to  keep 
up  this  minute."  He  trew  out  his  chist.  "  Come  on, 
Bridget ! "  he  says ;  "  let's  go  into  the  home  of  my 
ansisthers." 

Howandever,  scarcely  had  he  stepped  into  the 
beautiful  place  whin  two  pipers  with  their  pipes,  two 
fiddlers  with  their  fiddles,  two  flute-players  with  their 
flutes,  an'  they  dhressed  in  scarlet  an'  goold,  stepped 
out  in  front  of  him,  and  thus  to  maylodius  music  the 
family  proudly  marched  down  the  hall,  climbed  up 
the  goolden  stairway  at  its  ind,  an'  thin  turned  to 
enter  the  biggest  room  Darby  had  ever  seen. 

Something  in  his  sowl  whuspered  that  this  was  the 
picture-gallery. 

"  Be  the  powers  of  Pewther !  "  says  the  knowledge- 
able man  to  himself,  "  I  wouldn't  be  in  Bridget's  place 
this  minute  for  a  hatful  of  money!  Wait,  oh  just 
wait,  till  she  has  to  compare  her  own  relations  with 
my  own  foine  people !  I  know  how  she'll  feel,  but  I 
wondher  what  she'll  say,"  he  says. 
[52] 


DABBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  LEPBECHAUN 

The  thought  that  all  the  unjust  things,  all  the 
unraysonable  things  Bridget  had  said  about  his 
kith  an'  kin  were  just  going  to  be  disproved  and 
turned  against  herself,  made  him  proud  an'  almost 
happy. 

But  wirrasthrue !  He  should  have  raymembered 
his  own  adwise  not  to  make  nor  moil  nor  meddle  with 
the  fairies,  for  here  he  was  to  get  the  first  hard  welt 
from  the  little  Leprechaun. 

It  was  the  picture-gallery  sure  enough,  but  how 
terribly  different  everything  was  from  what  the  poor 
lad  expected.  There  on  the  left  wall,  grand  an' 
noble,  shone  the  pictures  of  Bridget's  people.  Of  all 
the  well-dressed,  handsome,  proud-appearing  persons 
in  the  whole  worruld,the  O'Hagans  an'  the  O'Shaugh- 
nessys  would  compare  with  the  best.  This  was 
a  hard  enough  crack,  though  a  crushinger  knock  was 
to  come.  Ferninst  them  on  the  right  wall  glowered 
the  O'Gills  and  the  O'Gradys,  and  of  all  the  ragged, 
sheep-stealing,  hangdog-looking  villains  one  ever  saw 
in  jail  or  out  of  jail,  it  was  Darby's  kindred. 

The  place  of  honour  on  the  right  wall  was  given 
to  Darby's  fourth  cousin,  Phelem  McFadden,  an'  he 
was  painted  with  a  pair  of  handcuffs  on  him.  Wull- 
[53] 


DARBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

um  O'Gill  had  a  squint  in  his  right  eye,  and  his  thin 
legs  bowed  like  hoops  on  a  barrel. 

If  you  have  ever  at  night  been  groping  your  way 
through  a  dark  room,  and  got  a  sudden,  hard  bump 
on  the  forehead  from  the  edge  of  the  door,  you  can 
undherstand  the  feelings  of  the  knowledgeable  man. 

"  Take  that  picture  out ! "  he  said,  hoarsely,  as 
soon  as  he  could  speak.  "  An'  will  someone  kindly 
inthrojuice  me  to  the  man  who  med  it?  Bekase,"  he 
says,  "  I  intend  to  take  his  life !  There  was  never 
a  crass-eyed  O'Gill  since  the  world  began,"  says  he. 

Think  of  his  horror  an'  surprise  whin  he  saw  the 
left  eye  of  Wullum  O'Gill  twist  itself  slowly  over 
toward  his  nose  and  squint  worse  than  the  right 
eye. 

Purtending  not  to  see  this,  an'  hoping  no  one  else 
did,  Darby  fiercely  led  the  way  over  to  the  other  wall. 

Fronting  him  stood  the  handsome  picture  of  Ho- 
noria  O'Shaughnessy,  an'  she  dhressed  in  a  shuit  of 
tin  clothes  like  the  knights  of  ould  used  to  wear — 
armour  I  think  they  calls  it. 

She  hildt  a  spear  in  her  hand  with  a  little  flag  on 
the  blade,  an'  her  smile  was  proud  and  high. 

"  Take  that  likeness  out,  too,"  says  Darby,  very 
[54] 


DARBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

spiteful ;  "  that's  not  a  dacint  shuit  of  clothes  for  any 
woman  to  wear !  " 

The  next  minute  you  might  have  knocked  him 
down  with  a  feather,  for  the  picture  of  Honoria 
O'Shaughnessy  opened  its  mouth  an'  stuck  out  its 
tongue  at  him. 

"  The  supper's  getting  cowld,  the  supper's  getting 
cowld !  "  someone  cried  at  the  other  ind  of  the  picture- 
gallery.  Two  big  doors  were  swung  open,  an'  glad 
enough  was  our  poor  hayro  to  folly  the  musicianers 
down  to  the  room  where  the  ating  an'  drinking  were 
to  be  thransacted. 

This  was  a  little  room  with  lots  of  looking-glasses, 
and  it  was  bright  with  a  thousand  candles,  and  white 
with  the  shining-ist  marble.  On  the  table  was  biled 
beef  an'  reddishes  an'  carrots  an'  roast  mutton  an' 
all  kinds  of  important  ating  an'  drinking.  Beside 
there  stood  fruits  an'  sweets  an' — but,  sure,  what  is 
the  use  in  talkin'  ? 

A  high-backed  chair  stood  ready  for  aich  of  the 
family,  an'  'twas  a  lovely  sight  to  see  them  all  whin 
they  were  sitting  there — Darby  at  the  head,  Bridget 
at  the  foot,  the  childher — the  poor  little  paythriarchs 
— sitting  bolt  upright  on  aich  side,  with  a  bewigged 
[55] 


DARBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

and  befrilled  serving-man  standing  haughty  behind 
every  chair. 

The  atin'  and  dhrinkin'  would  have  begun  at  once 
— in  throth  there  was  already  a  bit  of  biled  beef  on 
Darby's  plate — only  that  he  spied  a  little  silver  bell 
beside  him.  Sure,  'twas  one  like  those  the  quality 
keep  to  ring  whin  they  want  more  hot  wather  for  their 
punch,  but  it  puzzled  the  knowledgeable  man,  and 
'twas  the  beginning  of  his  misfortune. 

"  I  wondher,"  he  thought,  "  if  'tis  here  for  the 
same  raison  as  the  bell  is  at  the  Curragh  races — do 
they  ring  this  one  so  that  all  at  the  table  will  start 
ating  and  dhrinking  fair,  an'  no  one  will  have  the 
advantage,  or  is  it,"  he  says  to  himself  agin,  "  to 
ring  whin  the  head  of  the  house  thinks  everyone  has 
had  enough.  Haven't  the  quality  quare  ways!  I'll 
be  a  long  time  learning  them,"  he  says. 

He  sat  silent  and  puzzling  an'  staring  at  the  biled 
beef  on  his  plate,  afeard  to  start  in  without  ringing 
the  bell,  an'  dhreadin'  to  risk  ringing  it.  The  grand 
sarvants  towered  cowldly  on  every  side,  their  chins 
tilted,  but  they  kep'  throwing  over  their  chowlders 
glances  so  scornful  and  haughty  that  Darby  shivered 
at  the  thought  of  showing  any  uncultivaytion. 
[56] 


DARBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

While  our  hayro  sat  thus  in  unaisy  contimplation 
an'  smouldherin'  mortification  an'  flurried  hesitay- 
tion  a  powdhered  head  was  poked  over  his  chowlder, 
and  a  soft,  beguiling  voice  said,  "  Is  there  anything 
else  you'd  wish  for?  " 

The  foolish  lad  twisted  in  his  chair,  opened  his 
mouth  to  spake,  and  gave  a  look  at  the  bell;  shame 
rushed  to  his  cheeks,  he  picked  up  a  bit  of  the  biled 
beef  on  his  fork,  an'  to  consale  his  turpitaytion  gave 
the  misfortunit  answer: 

"  I'd  wish  for  a  pinch  of  salt,  if  you  plaze,"  says 
he. 

'Twas  no  sooner  said  than  came  the  crash.  Oh, 
tunderation  an'  murdheration,  what  a  roaring  crash 
it  was !  The  lights  winked  out  together  at  a  breath 
an'  left  a  pitchy,  throbbing  darkness.  Overhead  and 
to  the  sides  was  a  roaring,  smashing,  crunching  noise, 
like  the  ocean's  madness  when  the  winthry  storm 
breaks  agin  the  Kerry  shore,  an'  in  that  roar  was 
mingled  the  tearing  and  the  splitting  of  the  walls  and 
the  falling  of  the  chimneys.  But  through  all  this 
con-fusion  could  be  heard  the  shrill,  laughing  woice 
of  the  Leprechaun.  "  The  clever  man  med  his  fourth 
grand  wish  "  it  howled. 

[57] 


DARBY  O  GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

Darby — a  thousand  wild  woices  screaming  an' 
mocking  above  him — was  on  his  back  kicking  and 
squirming  and  striving  to  get  up,  but  some  load  hilt 
him  down,  an'  something  bound  his  eyes  shut. 

"Are  you  kilt,  Bridget  asthore? "  he  cried; 
"  where  are  the  childher?  "  he  says. 

Instead  of  answer  there  suddenly  flashed  a  fierce 
an'  angry  silence,  an'  its  quickness  frightened  the  lad 
more  than  all  the  wild  confusion  before. 

'Twas  a  full  minute  before  he  dared  to  open  his 
eyes  to  face  the  horrors  which  he  felt  were  standing 
about  him;  but  when  courage  enough  to  look  came, 
all  he  saw  was  the  night-covered  mountain,  a  purple 
sky,  and  a  thin,  new  moon,  with  one  trembling  goold 
star  a  hand's  space  above  its  bosom. 

Darby  struggled  to  his  feet.  Not  a  stone  of  the 
castle  was  left,  not  a  sod  of  turf  but  what  was  in  its 
ould  place ;  every  sign  of  the  little  cobbler's  work  had 
melted  like  April  snow.  The  very  threes  Darby  had 
seen  pulled  up  by  the  roots  that  same  afternoon  now 
stood  a  waving  blur  below  the  new  moon,  an'  a  night- 
ingale was  singing  in  their  branches.  A  cricket 
chirped  lonesomely  on  the  same  fallen  log  which  had 
hidden  the  Leprechaun. 

[58] 


DAEBY   OGILL  AND   THE   LE^BECHAUN 

"  Bridget !  Bridget !  "  Darby  called  agin  an'  agin. 
Only  a  sleepy  owl  on  a  distant  hill  answered. 

A  shivering  thought  jumped  into  the  boy's  bewil- 
dered sowl — maybe  the  Leprechaun  had  stolen 
Bridget  an'  the  childher. 

The  poor  man  turned,  and  for  the  last  time  darted 
down  into  the  night-filled  walley. 

Not  a  pool  in  the  road  he  waited  to  go  around, 
not  a  ditch  in  his  path  he  didn't  leap  over,  but  ran 
as  he  never  ran  before  till  he  raiched  his  own  front 
door. 

His  heart  stood  still  as  he  peeped  through  the  win- 
dow. There  were  the  childher  croodled  around 
Bridget,  who  sat  with  the  youngest  asleep  in  her  lap 
before  the  fire,  rocking  back  an'  forth,  an'  she  croon- 
ing a  happy,  continted  baby-song. 

Tears  of  gladness  crept  into  Darby's  eyes  as  he 
looked  in  upon  her.  "  God  bless  her !  "  he  says  to 
himself.  "  She's  the  flower  of  the  O'Hagans  and  the 
O'Shaughnessys,  and  she's  a  proud  feather  in  the 
caps  of  the  O'Gills  and  the  O'Gradys." 

'Twas  well  he  had  this  happy  thought  to  cheer  him 
as  he  lifted  the  door-latch,  for  the  manest  of  all  the 
little  cobbler's  spiteful  thricks  waited  in  the  house  to 


DARBY  O   GILL  AND  THE  LEPRECHAUN 

meet  Darby — nayther  Bridget  nor  the  childher  ray- 
membered  a  single  thing  of  all  that  had  happened 
to  them  during  the  day.  They  were  willing  to  make 
their  happydavitts  that  they  had  been  no  farther 
than  their  own  petatie-patch  since  morning. 


THE  CONVARSION  OF  FATHER  CASSIDY 


THE  CONVARSION  OF  FATHER  CASSIDY 


•u  f 
L  TOULD  you  how  on  cowld  winther  nights  whin 

Bridget  and  the  childher  were  in  bed,  ould  Brian  Con- 
nors, King  of  the  Fairies,  used  to  sit  visitin'  at  Darby 
O'Gill's  own  fireside.  But  I  never  tould  you  of  the 
wild  night  whin  the  King  faced  Father  Cassidy  there. 

Darby  O'Gill  sat  at  his  own  kitchen  fire  the  night 
afther  Mrs.  Morrisey's  burying,  studyin'  over  a 
gr-r-reat  daybate  that  was  heldt  at  her  wake. 

Half-witted  Red  Durgan  begun  it  be  asking  loud 
an'  sudden  of  the  whole  company,  "  Who  was  the 
greatest  man  that  ever  lived  in  the  whole  worruld? 
I  want  to  know  purtic'lar,  an*  I'd  like  to  know  at 
once,"  he  says. 

At  that  the  dayliberations  started. 

Big  Joey  Hooligan,  the  smith,  hildt  out  for  Julius 
Sayser,  bekase  Sayser  had  throunced  the  widdy 
woman  Clayopathra. 

[63] 


CONVAESION     OF      FATHER     CASSIDY 

Maurteen  Cavanaugh,  the  little  schoolmaster,  stood 
up  for  Bonyparte,  an'  wanted  to  fight  Dinnis  Mori- 
arity  for  disputin*  agin  the  Frenchman. 

Howsumever,  the  starter  of  the  rale  excitement 
was  ould  Mrs.  Clancy.  She  was  not  what  you'd  call 
a  great  histhorian,  but  the  parish  thought  her  a  foine, 
sinsible  woman.  She  said  that  the  greatest  man  was 
Nebbycodnazer,  the  King  of  the  Jews,  who  ate  grass 
like  a  cow  and  grew  fat  on  it. 

"  Could  Julius  Sayser  or  Napoleon  Bonyparte  do 
as  much?  "  she  axed. 

Well,  purty  soon  everyone  was  talking  at  once, 
hurling  at  aich  other,  as  they  would  pavin'-stones, 
the  names  of  poets  an'  warriors  an'  scholars. 

But  afther  all  was  said  an'  done,  the  mourners 
wint  away  in  the  morning  with  nothing  settled. 

So  the  night  afther,  while  Darby  was  warming  his 
shins  before  his  own  turf  fire  in  deep  meditaytion  and 
wise  cogitaytion  and  ca'm  contemplaytion  over  these 
high  conversations,  the  Master  of  the  Good  People 
flew  ragin'  into  the  kitchen. 

"  Darby  O'Gill,  what  do  you  think  of  your  wife 
Bridget  ?  "  says  he,  fiercely. 

"  Faix,  I  don't  know  what  particular  thing  she's 
[64] 


done,"  says  Darby,  rubbing  his  shins  and  lookin* 
troubled,  "  but  I  can  guess  it's  something  mighty  dis- 
agrayable.  She  wore  her  blue  petticoat  and  her  brown 
shawl  whin  she  went  away  this  morning,  and  I  always 
expect  ructions  whin  she  puts  on  that  shuit  of  clothes. 
Thin  agin,  she  looked  so  sour  and  so  satisfied  whin 
she  came  back  that  I'm  worried  bad  in  my  mind ;  you 
don't  know  how  uncomfortable  she  can  make  things 
sometimes,  quiet  as  she  looks,"  says  he. 

"  And  well  you  may  be  worried,  dacint  man !  "  says 
the  ruler  of  Sleive-na-mon ;  "  you'll  rage  and  you'll 
roar  whin  ye  hear  me.  She  wint  this  day  to  Father 
Cassidy  and  slandhered  me  outrageous,"  he  says. 
"  She  tould  him  that  you  and  Maureen  were  col- 
loguing with  a  little  ould,  wicked,  thieving  fairy-man, 
and  that  if  something  wasn't  done  at  once  agin  him 
the  sowls  of  both  of  ye  would  be  desthroyed  entirely." 

Whin  Darby  found  'twas  not  himself  that  was 
being  bothered,  but  only  the  King,  he  grew  aisier  in 
his  feelings.  "  Sure  you  wouldn't  mind  women's 
talk,"  says  he,  waving  his  hand  in  a  lofty  way. 
"  Many  a  good  man  has  been  given  a  bad  name  by 
them  before  this,  and  will  be  agin — you're  not  the 
first  by  any  manes,"  says  he.  "  If  Bridget  makes  you 
[65] 


CONVARSION     OF      FATHER     CASSIDY 

a  bad  repitation,  think  how  many  years  you  have  to 
live  it  down  in.  Be  sinsible,  King !  "  he  says. 

"  But  I  do  mind,  and  I  must  mind !  "  bawled  the 
little  fairy-man,  every  hair  and  whusker  bristling, 
"  for  this  minute  Father  Cassidy  is  putting  the  bridle 
and  saddle  on  his  black  hunter,  Terror;  he  has  a 
prayer-book  in  his  pocket,  and  he's  coming  to  read 
prayers  over  me  and  to  banish  me  into  the  say. 
Hark !  listen  to  that,"  he  says. 

As  he  spoke,  a  shrill  little  voice  broke  into  singing 
outside  the  window. 

"  Oh,  whafll  you  do  if  the  kittle  biles  over, 

Sure,  what' II  you  do  but  fill  it  ayin  ; 
Ah,  whafll  you  do  if  you  marry  a  sojer, 

But  pack  up  your  clothes  and  go  marchiri1  with  him." 

"  That's  the  signal ! "  says  the  King,  all  excited ; 
"  he's  coming  and  I'll  face  him  here  at  this  hearth, 
but  sorrow  foot  he'll  put  over  that  threshol'  till  I  give 
him  lave.  Then  we'll  have  it  out  face  to  face  like 
men  ferninst  this  fire !  " 

Whin  Darby  heard  those  words  great  fright  struck 
him. 

"  If  a  hair  of  his  Riverence's  head  be  harmed,"  he 
says,  "  'tis  not  you  but  me  and  my  generation'll  be 
[66] 


CONVARSION     OF      FATHER     CASSIDY 

blamed  for  it.  Plaze  go  back  to  Sleive-na-mon  this 
night,  for  pace  and  quietness  sake !  "  he  begged. 

While  Darby  spoke,  the  fairy-man  was  fixing  one 
stool  on  top  of  another  undher  the  window. 

"  I'll  sit  at  this  window,"  says  the  Master  of  the 
Good  People,  wagging  his  head  threateningly,  "  and 
from  there  I'll  give  me  ordhers.  The  throuble  he's 
thrying  to  bring  on  others  is  the  throuble  I'll  throuble 
him  with.  If  he  comes  dacint,  he'll  go  dacint;  if  he 
comes  bothering,  he'll  go  bothered,"  says  he. 

Faith,  thin,  your  Honour,  the  King  spoke  no  less 
than  the  truth,  for  at  that  very  minute  Terror,  as 
foine  a  horse  as  ever  followed  hounds,  was  galloping 
down  the  starlit  road  to  Darby's  house,  and  over  Ter- 
ror's mane  bent  as  foine  a  horseman  as  ever  took  a 
six-bar  gate — Father  Cassidy. 

On  and  on  through  the  moonlight  they  clattered, 
till  they  came  in  sight  of  Darby's  gate,  where,  unseen 
and  onwisible,  a  score  of  the  Good  People,  with  thorns 
in  their  fists,  lay  sniggering  and  laughing,  waiting 
for  the  horse.  Of  course  the  fairies  couldn't  harm 
the  good  man  himself,  but  Terror  was  complately  at 
their  marcy. 

"  We'll  not  stop  to  open  the  gate,  Terror,"  says 
[67] 


CONVARSION     OF      FATHER     CASSIDY 

his  Riverence,  patting  the  haste's  neck.  "  I'll  give 
you  a  bit  of  a  lift  with  the  bridle-rein,  and  a  touch 
like  that  on  the  flank,  and  do  you  clear  it,  my  swallow- 
bird." 

Well,  sir,  the  priest  riz  in  his  stirrups,  lifted  the 
rein,  and  Terror  crouched  for  the  spring,  whin,  with 
a  sudden  snort  of  pain,  the  baste  whirled  round  and 
started  like  the  wind  back  up  the  road. 

His  Riverence  pulled  the  horse  to  its  haunches  and 
swung  him  round  once  more  facing  the  cottage.  Up 
on  his  hind  feet  went  Terror  and  stood  crazy  for  a 
second,  pawing  the  air,  then  with  a  cry  of  rage  and 
pain  in  his  throat,  the  baste  turned,  made  a  rush 
for  the  hedge  at  the  roadside,  and  cleared  it  like  an 
arrow. 

Now,  just  beyant  the  hedge  was  a  bog  so  thin  that 
the  geese  wouldn't  walk  on  it,  and  so  thick  that  the 
ducks  couldn't  swim  in  it.  Into  the  middle  of  that 
cowld  pond  Terror  fell  with  a  splash  and  a  crash. 

That  minute  the  King  climbed  down  from  the  win- 
dow splitting  with  laughter.  "  Darby,"  he  says,  slap- 
ping his  knees,  "  Father  Cassidy  is  floundhering  about 
in  the  bog  outside.  He's  not  hurt,  but  he's  mighty 
cowld  and  uncomfortable.  Do  you  go  and  make  him 
[68] 


CONVARSION     OF      FATHER     CASSIDY 

promise  not  to  read  any  prayers  this  night,  then 
bring  him  in.  Tell  him  that  if  he  don't  promise,  by 
the  piper  that  played  before  Moses,  he  may  stay  read- 
ing his  prayers  in  the  bog  till  morning,  for  he  can't 
get  out  unless  some  of  my  people  go  in  and  help 
him !  "  says  the  King. 

Darby's  heart  began  hammerin'  agin  his  ribs  as 
though  it  were  making  heavy  horseshoes. 

"  If  that's  so,  I'm  a  ruined  man !  "  he  says.  "  I'd 
give  tunty  pounds  rather  than  face  him  now ! " 
says  he. 

The  disthracted  lad  put  his  hat  on  to  go  out,  an* 
thin  he  took  it  off  to  stay  in.  He  let  a  groan  out  of 
him  that  shook  all  his  bones. 

"  You  may  save  him  or  lave  him,"  says  the  King, 
turning  to  the  window.  "  I'm  going  to  lave  the  priest 
see  in  a  minute  what's  bothering  him.  If  he's  not  out 
of  the  bog  be  that  time,  I'd  adwise  you  to  lave  the 
counthry.  Maybe  you'll  only  have  a  pair  of  cow's 
horns  put  on  ye,  but  I  think  ye'll  be  kilt,"  he  says. 
"  My  own  mind's  aisy.  I  wash  my  hands  of  him ! 

"  That's  the  great  comfort  and  adwantage  of  hav- 
ing your  sowl's  salwation  fixed  and  sartin  one  way 
or  the  other,"  says  the  King,  peering  out.  "  Whin 
[69] 


you  do  a  thing,  bad  as  it  is  or  good  as  it  may  be, 
your  mind  is  still  aisy,  bekase — "  he  turned  from  the 
window  to  look  at  Darby,  but  the  lad  was  gone  out 
into  the  moonlight,  and  was  shrinkin'  an'  cringin'  up 
toward  the  bog,  as  though  he  were  going  to  meet  and 
talk  with  the  ghost  of  a  man  he'd  murdhered.  'Twas 
a  harsher  an'  angrier  woice  than  that  of  any  ghost 
that  came  out  of  a  great  flopping  and  splashin'  in  the 


Father  Cassidy  sat  with  his  feet  dhrawn  up  on 
Terror,  and  the  horse  was  half  sunk  in  the  mire.  At 
times  he  urged  Terror  over  to  the  bank,  an'  just  as 
the  baste  was  raising  to  step  out,  with  a  snort,  it'd 
whirl  back  agin. 

He'd  thry  another  side,  but  spur  as  he  might,  and 
whip  as  he  would,  the  horse'd  turn  shivering  back 
to  the  middle  of  the  bog. 

"  Is  that  you,  Darby  O'Gill,  you  vagebone  ?  "  cried 
his  Riverence.  "  Help  me  out  of  this  to  the  dhry 
land  so  as  I  can  take  the  life  of  you !  "  he  cried. 

"  What  right  has  anyone  to  go  trespassin'  in  my 

bog,  mussing  it  all  up  an'  spiling  it?  "  says  Darby, 

purtendin'  not  to  raycognise  the  priest ;  "  I  keep  it 

private  for  my  ducks  and  geese,  and  I'll  have  the  law 

[70] 


CONVARSION     OF      FATHER     CASSIDY 

on  you,  so  I  will — Oh,  be  the  powers  of  pewther,  'tis 
me  own  dear  Father  Cassidy !  "  he  cried. 

Father  Cassidy,  as  an  answer,  raiched  for  a  hand- 
ful of  mud,  which  he  aimed  and  flung  so  fair  an* 
thrue  that  three  days  afther  Darby  was  still  pulling 
bits  of  it  from  his  hair. 

"  I  have  a  whip  I'll  keep  private  for  your  own 
two  f oine  legs !  "  cried  his  Riverence ;  "  I'll  taich  you 
to  tell  lies  to  the  counthry-side  about  your  being  with 
the  fairies,  and  for  deludherin'  your  own  poor  wife. 
I  came  down  this  night  to  eggspose  you.  But  now 
that's  the  laste  I'll  do  to  you !  " 

"  Faith,"  says  Darby,  "  if  I  was  with  the  fairies, 
'tis  no  less  than  you  are  this  minute,  an'  if  you  eggs- 
pose  me,  I'll  eggspose  you !  "  With  that  Darby  up 
and  tould  what  was  the  cause  of  the  whole  bother- 
ation. 

His  Riverence,  afther  the  telling,  waited  not  a  min- 
ute, but  kicked  the  spurs  into  Terror,  and  the  brave 
horse  headed  once  more  for  shore.  'Twas  no  use. 
The  poor  baste  turned  at  last  with  a  cry  and  floun- 
dhered  back  agin  into  the  mire. 

"  You'll  not  be  able  to  get  out,  Father  acushla," 
says  Darby,  "  till  you  promise  fair  an'  firm  not  to 
[71] 


CONVARSION     OF      FATHER      CASSIDY 

read  any  prayers  over  the  Good  People  this  night, 
and  never  to  hurt  or  molest  meself  on  any  account. 
About  this  last  promise  the  King  is  very  particular 
entirely." 

"  You  dundherheaded  Booligadhaun ! "  says 
Father  Cassidy,  turning  all  the  blame  on  Darby; 
"  you  mayandherin'  Mayrauder  of  the  Sivin  Says !  " 
he  says.  "  You  big-headed  scorpion  of  the  worruld, 
with  bow-legs !  "  cried  he, — an'  things  like  that. 

"  Oh,  my !  Oh,  my !  Oh,  my !  "  says  Darby,  pur- 
tendin'  to  be  shocked,  "  to  think  that  me  own  pasture 
should  use  sich  terrible  langwidge!  That  me  own 
dear  Father  Cassidy  could  spake  blaggard  words  like 
thim!  Every  dhrop  of  blood  in  me  is  biling  with 
scandalation.  Let  me  beg  of  you  and  implore  your 
Riverence  never  agin  to  make  use  of  talk  like 
that.  It  breaks  my  heart  to  hear  you ! "  says  the 
villian. 

For  a  few  minutes  afther  that  Darby  was  doin' 
nothing  but  dodging  handfuls  of  mud. 

While  this  was  going  on,  a  soft  red  glow,  like  that 

which  hangs  above  the  lonely  raths  an'  forts  at  night 

when  the  fairies  are  dancin'  in  thim,  came  over  the 

fields.     So  whin  Father  Cassidy  riz  in  his  stirrups 

[72] 


CONVARSION     OF     FATHER     CASSIDY 

the  soft  glow  was  resting  on  the  bog,  and  there  he 
saw  two  score  of  little  men  in  green  jackets  and  brown 
caps  waiting  about  the  pond's  edge,  and  everyone 
houlding  a  switch  in  his  hands. 

The  little  lads  knew  well  'twas  too  dark  for  the 
clergyman  to  read  from  his  book  any  banishing 
prayers,  and  barring  having  too  much  fun,  the  divil 
a  thing  they  had  to  fear ! 

'Twas  fresh  anger  that  came  to  Father  Cassidy 
afther  the  first  rush  of  surprise  and  wondher.  He 
thried  now  to  get  at  the  Good  People,  to  lay  his  hands 
on  thim.  A  dozen  charges  at  the  bank  his  Riverence 
made,  and  as  many  times  a  score  of  the  Little  People 
flew  up  to  meet  him  and  sthruck  the  poor  baste  over 
the  soft  nose  with  their  wands  till  the  horse  was  welted 
back. 

Long  afther  the  struggle  was  proved  hopeless  it 
wint  on  till  at  last  the  poor  baste,  thrembling  and  dis- 
heartened, rayfused  to  mind  the  spur. 

At  that  Father  Cassidy  gave  up.  "  I  surrender," 
he  said,  "  an'  I  promise  for  the  sake  of  my  horse," 
said  he. 

The  baste  himself   undherstood  the  worruds,  for 
with  that  he  waded  ca'm  an'  quiet  to  the  dhry  land 
[73] 


CONVARSION      OF      FATHER      CASSIDY 

and  stood  shaking  himself  there  among  the  pack  of 
fairies. 

Mighty  few  words  were  passed  betwixt  Darby  and 
Terror's  rider  as  the  whole  party  went  up  to  Darby's 
stable,  the  little  people  follying  behind  quiet  and 
ordherly. 

It  was  not  long  till  Terror  was  nibbling  comfort- 
ably in  a  stall,  Father  Cassidy  was  dhrying  himself 
before  the  kitchen  fire,  the  King  and  Darby  were  sit- 
ting by  the  side  of  the  hearth,  and  two  score  of  the 
green-cloaked  Little  People  were  scatthered  about  the 
kitchen  waiting  for  the  great  debate  which  was  sure 
to  come  betwixt  his  Riverence  and  the  head  man  of 
the  Good  People,  now  that  the  two  had  met.  . 

So  full  was  the  room  that  some  of  the  Good  People 
sat  on  the  shelves  of  the  dhresser,  others  lay  on  the 
table,  their  chins  in  their  fists,  whilst  little  Phelim  Beg 
was  perching  himself  on  a  picture  above  the  hearth. 
He'd  no  sooner  touched  the  picture-frame  than  he  let 
a  howl  out  of  him  and  jumped  to  the  floor.  "  I'm 
burned  to  the  bone !  "  says  he. 

"  No  wondher,"  says  the  King,  looking  up ;  "  'twas 
a  picture  of  St.  Patrick  you  were  sitting  on." 

Phadrig  Oge,  swinging  his  heels,  balanced  him- 
[74] 


CONVARSION     OF      FATHER      CASSIDY 

self  on  the  edge  of  a  churn  filled  with  buttermilk, 
but  everyone  of  them  kept  wondhering  eyes  fastened 
on  the  priest. 

And  to  tell  the  truth,  Father  Cassidy  at  first  was 
more  scornful  and  unpolite  than  he  need  be. 

"  I  suppose,"  says  his  Riverence,  "  you  do  be  wor- 
rying a  good  deal  about  the  place  you're  going  to 
afther  the  Day  of  Judgment?  "  he  says,  kind  of 
mocking. 

"  Arrah,  now,"  says  the  King,  taking  the  pipe 
from  his  mouth  and  staring  hard  at  the  clargyman, 
"  there's  more  than  me  ought  to  be  studying  that 
question.  There's  a  parish  priest  I  knew,  and  he's 
not  far  from  here,  who  ate  mate  on  a  fast  day,  three 
years  ago  come  next  Michaelmas,  who  should  be  a 
good  lot  intherested  in  that  same  place,"  says  the 
King. 

The  laughing  and  tittering  that  follyed  this  hit 
lasted  a  minute. 

Father  Cassidy  turned  scarlet.  "  When  I  ate  it  I 
forgot  the  day !  "  he  cried. 

"  That's  what  you  tould,"  says  the  King,  smiling 
sweet,  "  but  that  saying  don't  help  your  chanst  much. 
Maybe  you  failed  to  say  your  prayers  a  year  ago 
[75] 


CONVAKSION     OF      FATHER     CASSIDY 

last  Ayster  Monday  night  for  the  same  ray  son?  " 
axed  the  King,  very  cool. 

At  this  the  laughing  broke  out  agin,  uproarious, 
some  of  the  little  men  houlding  their  sides  and  tears 
rowling  down  their  cheeks;  two  lads  begun  dancing 
together  before  the  chiny  dishes  upon  the  dhresser. 
But  at  the  height  of  the  merriment  there  was  a  cry 
and  a  splash,  for  Phadrig  Oge  had  fallen  into  the 
churn. 

Before  anyone  could  help  him  Phadrig  had  climbed 
bravely  up  the  churn-dash,  hand  over  hand  like  a  sail- 
or man,  and  clambered  out  all  white  and  dripping. 
"  Don't  mind  me,"  he  says ;  "  go  on  wid  the  dis- 
coorse !  "  he  cried,  shaking  himself.  The  Ruler  of  the 
Good  People  looked  vexed. 

"  I  marvel  at  yez,  an'  I  am  ashamed  of  yez ! "  he 
says.  "  If  I'm  not  able  alone  for  this  dayludhered 
man,  yer  shoutin'  and  your  gallivantin'll  do  me  no 
good.  Besides,  fair  play's  a  jewel,  even  two  agin 
one  ain't  fair,"  says  the  King.  "  If  I  hear  another 
word  from  one  of  yez,  back  to  Sleive-na-mon  he'll  go, 
an'  lay  there  on  the  broad  of  his  back,  with  his  heels 
in  the  air,  for  a  year  and  tin  days ! 

"  You  were  about  to  obsarve,  Father  Cassidy," 
[76] 


CONVARSION     OF     FATHER     CASSIDY 

says  his  Majesty,  bowing  low — "  your  most  obay- 
dient  sir ! " 

"  I  was  about  to  say,"  cried  his  Riverence,  "  that 
you're  a  friend  of  Sattin ! " 

"  I'll  not  deny  that,"  says  the  King ;  "  what  have 
you  to  say  agin  him?  " 

"  He's  a  rogue  and  a  rapscallion  and  the  inemy 
of  mankind !  "  tundered  Father  Cassidy. 

"  Prove  he's  a  rogue ! "  cries  the  King,  slapping 
one  hand  on  the  other ;  "  and  why  shouldn't  he  be  the 
inemy  of  mankind?  What  has  mankind  iver  done  for 
him  except  to  lay  the  blame  of  every  mane,  cowardly 
thrick  of  its  own  on  his  chowlders.  Wasn't  it  on  their 
account  he  was  put  inside  of  the  swine  and  dhrove 
into  the  say  ?  Wasn't  it  bekase  of  them  he  spint  sivin 
days  and  sivin  nights  in  the  belly  of  a  whale,  wasn't 
it " 

"  Stop  there,  now ! "  says  Father  Cassidy,  pint- 
ing  his  finger ;  "  hould  where  you  are — that  was 
Jonah." 

"  You're  working  meracles  to  make  me  forget ! " 
shouted  the  King. 

"  I'm  not !  "  cried  the  priest,  "  and  what's  more,  if 
you'll  agree  not  to  use  charms  of  the  black  art  to  help 
[77] 


CONVAESION     OF      FATHER      CASSIDY 

yourself,  I'll  promise  not  to  work  meracles  agin 
you." 

"  Done !  I'll  agree,"  says  the  King,  "  and  with 
that  bargain  I'll  go  on  first,  and  I'll  prove  that  man- 
kind is  the  inemy  of  Sattin." 

"  Who  begun  the  inmity?  "  intherrupted  his  Riv- 
erence ;  "  who  started  in  be  tempting  our  first  par- 
ents?" 

"  Not  wishing  to  make  little  of  a  man's  relaytions 
in  his  own  house  or  to  his  own  face,  but  your  first 
parents  were  a  poor  lot,"  said  the  King.  "  Didn't 
your  first  parent  turn  quane's  evidence  agin  his  own 
wife  ?  Answer  me  that !  " 

"  Undher  the  sarcumstances,  would  ye  have  him 
tell  a  lie  whin  he  was  asked?  "  says  the  priest  right 
back. 

Well,  the  argyment  got  hotter  and  hotter  until 
Darby's  mind  was  in  splinthers.  Sometimes  he  sided 
with  Ould  Nick,  sometimes  he  was  agin  him.  Half 
of  what  they  said  he  didn't  undherstand.  They 
talked  Tayology,  Conchology,  and  Distrology,  they 
hammered  aich  other  with  Jayography,  Orthography, 
and  Misnography,  they  welted  aich  other  with 
Hylosophy,  Philosophy,  and  Thrimosophy.  They 
[78] 


CONVARSION      OF      FATHER      CASSIDY 

bounced  up  and  down  in  their  sates,  they  shouted  and 
got  purple  in  the  face.  But  every  argyment  brought 
out  another  nearly  as  good  and  twict  as  loud. 

Through  all  this  time  the  follyers  of  the  King  sat 
upon  their  perches  or  lay  upon  the  table  motionless, 
like  little  wooden  images  with  painted  green  cloaks 
and  brown  caps. 

Darby,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  them  for 
help  to  undherstand  the  thraymendous  argyment  that 
was  goin'  on,  felt  his  brain  growin'  numb.  At  last 
it  balked  like  Shamus  Free's  donkey,  and  urge  as  he 
would,  the  divil  a  foot  his  mind'd  stir  afther  the  two 
hayros.  It  turned  at  last  and  galloped  back  to  Mrs. 
Morrisey's  wake. 

Now,  thin,  the  thought  that  came  into  Darby's 
head  as  he  sat  there  ferninst  Father  Cassidy  an'  the 
King  was  this: 

"  The  two  wisest  persons  in  Ireland  are  this  min- 
ute shouting  and  disputing  before  me  own  turf  fire. 
If  I  ax  them  those  questions,  I'll  be  wiser  than  Maur- 
teen  Cavanaugh,  the  schoolmaster,  an'  twict  as  wise 
as  any  other  man  in  this  parish.  I'll  do  it,"  he  says 
to  himself. 

He  raised  the  tongs  and  struck  them  so  loud  and 
[79] 


CONVARSION      OF      FATHER     CASSIDY 

quick  against  the  hearth  that  the  two  daybaters 
stopped  short  in  their  talk  to  look  at  him. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  says — "  lave  off  and  tell  me  who  was 
the  greatest  man  that  ever  lived?  "  says  he. 

At  that  a  surprising  thing  happened.  Brian  Con- 
nors and  Father  Cassidy,  aich  striving  to  speak  first, 
answered  in  the  same  breath  and  gave  the  same  name. 

"  Dan'le  O'Connell,"  says  they. 

There  was  at  that  the  instant's  silence  an'  stillness 
which  follys  a  great  explosion  of  gunpowdher. 

Thin  every  subject  of  the  King  started  to  his  feet. 

"  Three  cheers  for  Dan'le  O'Connell ! "  cried  little 
Roderick  Dhue.  Every  brown  cap  was  swung  in  the 
air.  "  Hooray !  Hooray !  Hooroo !  "  rang  the 
cheers. 

His  Riverence  and  the  fairy-chief  turned  sharp 
about  and  stared  at  each  other,  delighted  and  won- 
dhering. 

Darby  sthruck  agin  with  the  tongs.  "  Who  was 
the  greatest  poet?"  says  he. 

Agin  the  two  spoke  together.    "  Tom  Moore,"  says 

they.     The  King  rubbed  his  hands  and  gave  a  glad 

side  look  at  the  priest.     Darby  marked  the  friendly 

light  that  was  stealing  into  Father  Cassidy's  brown 

[80] 


CONVARSION      OF     FATHER     CASSIDY 

eyes.  There  was  great  excitement  among  the  Good 
People  up  on  the  cupboard  shelves. 

On  the  table  little  Nial,  the  wise,  was  thrying  to 
start  three  cheers  for  Father  Cassidy,  when  Darby 
said  agin :  "  Who  was  the  greatest  warrior  ?  "  he  says. 

The  kitchen  grew  still  as  death,  aich  of  the  two 
hayros  waiting  for  the  other. 

The  King  spoke  first.     "  Brian  Boru,"  says  he. 

"  No,"  says  Father  Cassidy,  half  laughing ; 
"  Owen  Roe  O'Nale." 

Phadrig  Oge  jumped  from  the  churn.  "  Owen 
Roe  forever !  I  always  said  it !  "  cries  he.  "  Look 
at  this  man,  boys,"  he  says,  pinting  up  to  the  priest. 
"  There's  the  making  of  the  foinest  bishop  in  Ire- 
land!" 

"  The  divil  a  much  differ  betwixt  Owen  Roe  an* 
Brian  Boru !  'Tis  one  of  them  two,  an'  I  don't  care 
which !  "  says  the  King. 

The  priest  and  the  King  sank  back  in  their  chairs, 
eyeing  aich  other  with  admayration. 

Darby  powered  something  out  of  a  jug  into  three 
brown  stone  noggins,  and  then  turned  hot  wather 
from  the  kittle,  on  top  of  that  agin. 

Says  the  King  to  the  clargyman,  "  You're  the 
[81] 


CONVARSION     OF      FATHER     CASSIDY 

cleverest  and  the  knowingest  man  I've  met  in 
five  thousand  years.  That  joult  you  gave  me  about 
Jonah  was  a  terror !  " 

"  I  never  saw  your  ayquil !  If  we  could  only  send 
you  to  Parliament,  you'd  free  Ireland !  "  says  Father 
Cassidy.  "  To  think,"  says  he,  "  that  once  I  used 
to  believe  there  was  no  such  thing  as  fairies ! " 

"  That  was  bekase  you  were  shuperstitious,"  says 
the  King.  "  Everyone  is  so,  more  or  less.  I  am  me- 
self — a  little,"  says  he. 

Darby  was  stirrin'  spoons  in  the  three  steaming 
noggins  and  Father  Cassidy  was  looking  throubled. 

What  would  his  flock  say  to  see  him  dhrinking 
punch  with  a  little  ould  pagin,  who  was  the  friend 
of  Quid  Nick? 

"  Your  health !  "  says  the  King,  houlding  up  the 
cup. 

His  Riverence  took  a  bowl  of  the  punch,  for  day- 
cency's  sake,  and  stood  quiet  a  minute.  At  last  he 
says,  "  Happiness  to  you  and  forgiveness  to  you,  and 
my  heart's  pity  folly  you ! "  says  he,  raising  the 
noggin  to  his  lips. 

He  dhrained  the  cup  thoughtful  and  solemn,  for 
he  didn't  know  rightly  whether  'twas  a  vaynial  sin  or 
[82] 


C  O  N  V  A  R  S  I  O  N      OF      FATHER      CASSIDY 

a  mortial  sin  he'd  committed  by  the  bad  example  he 
was  giving  Darby. 

"  I  wisht  I  could  do  something  for  yez,"  he  says, 
putting  on  his  cloak,  "  but  I  have  only  pity  and  kind 
wishes  to  give  you !  " 

He  turned  agin  when  his  hand  was  on  the  door- 
knob, and  was  going  to  say  something  else,  but 
changed  his  mind,  and  wint  out  to  where  Darby  was 
houlding  the  horse. 

Manewhile,  the  Little  People  were  consultin'  eager 
in  a  knot  beside  the  fireplace,  until  the  King  broke 
away  an'  follyed  Father  Cassidy  out. 

"  Wait  a  minute !  "  the  fairy  says.  "  There's  some- 
thin'  important  your  Riverence  should  know  about," 
he  says.  "  There's  two  speckled  hins  that  sthrayed 
away  from  your  own  door  over  to  the  black  pond,  an* 
they've  been  there  this  twelvemonth.  I'm  loathe  to 
say  it,  but  in  yer  own  mind  your  honour  a-ccused 
Bothered  Bill  Donahue,  the  tinker,  with  takin'  thim. 
Well,  they've  raised  two  great  clutches  of  chickens 
an'  they're  all  yours.  We  thought  we'd  tell  ye,"  he 
says. 

"  An'  last  Chewsday  night  Nancy  Burke  bate  her 
husband  Dicky  for  being  'toxicated.  I  think  she 
[83] 


CONVAESION      OF     FATHER     CASSIDY 

bate  him  too  scan'lous,"  says  little  Nial,  the  fiddler, 
comin*  out.  "  An'  Dicky  is  too  proud  to  complain  of 
her  to  your  honour.  He  says  'twould  be  makin'  a 
kind  of  informer  out  of  himself.  But  maybe  she'll 
bate  him  agin,  so  I  thought  to  mintion  it,"  he  says. 
With  that  Phadrig  Oge  broke  in  from  where  he  stood 
on  the  thrashol' : 

"  Tom  Healy's  family,  up  the  mountainy  way,  is 
all  down  with  the  faver;  they  have  no  one  to  send 
worrud ! "  cried  Phadrig ;  "  your  honour  ought  to 
know  about  it,"  he  says. 

Be  this  time  the  Good  People  were  all  outside, 
crowded  about  the  horse,  an'  aich  one  excited,  shout- 
ing up  some  friendly  informaytion. 

Father  Cassidy,  from  Terror's  back,  sat  smilin' 
down  kind,  first  on  this  one,  then  on  that,  an'  then 
on  the  other. 

"  Wisha ! "  says  he,  "  ain't  ye  the  kindly  cra- 
chures !  I've  heard  more  news  of  me  own  parish  in 
the  last  foive  minutes  than  I'd  have  learned  in  a 
twelvemonth.  But  there's  one  thing  I'd  liked  mighty 
well  to  know.  Maybe  yez  could  tell  me,"  says  he, 
"  who  committed  the  mystarious  crime  in  this  parish 
a  year  ago  last  Christmas?  Who  stole  the  six  shil- 
[84] 


CONVAESION      OF      FATHER     CASSIDT 

lin's  from  ould  Mrs.  Frawley?  She  counted  them  at 
Mrs.  McGee's,  an'  she  felt  them  in  her  pocket  at  Mrs. 
Donovan's;  the  crowd  jostled  her  at  the  chapel  door, 
an'  afther  that  they  were  gone,"  he  says. 

Well,  the  fairies  were  splittin'  with  laughter  as  he 
spoke. 

"  No  one  stole  thim  at  all,"  says  Shaun  Rhue,  the 
tears  of  merriment  rollin'  down  his  face.  "  The  dis- 
raymemberin'  woman  only  aymagins  she  counted  thim 
at  Mrs.  McGee's  an'  felt  thim  at  Mrs.  Donovan's.  She 
was  only  thinkin'  about  the  money  at  thim  places, 
an'  that's  how  she  got  the  ideeh.  She  hid  the  shiUin's 
in  the  blue  taypot  with  the  broken  spout,  that  stands 
in  the  left-han'  corner  of  the  mayhogany  dhresser, 
an'  thin  forgot  it  entirely,"  he  says. 

"  Well,  look  at  that,  now,"  says  the  priest,  "  an* 
all  the  turmile  there's  been  about  that  same  six  shil- 
lin's,  an'  she  afther  hidin'  them  in  the  taypot  herself. 
Now  isn't  there  something  I  can  do  in  rayturn  for  all 
your  kindness?  "  he  says. 

"  There's  one  thing,"  says  King  Brian  Connors, 

lookin'  a  good  dale  confuged.     "  If  your  Riverence 

could  just  as  well — if  it'd  be  no  positive  inconvayni- 

ence — we'd  like  mightilly  for  ye  not  to  be  singin' 

[85] 


CONVARSION      OF      FATHER     CASSIDY 

pious  hymns  as  you  go  riding  along  the  highway 
afther  dark.  If  you'd  sing  ballads,  now,  or  Tom 
Moore's  melodies.  You  mane  no  harrum,  of  course, 
as  it  is,  but  last  week  you  broke  up  a  dance  we  were 
having  at  Murray's  rath,  an'  Saturday  night  you 
put  a  scatther  on  a  crowd  of  us  as  we  were  coming 
by  McGrath's  meadow,"  he  says,  anxious. 

'Twas  a  quare  bargain  for  a  clargyman  to  make, 
an'  faix  it  wint  agin  his  conscience,  but  he  hadn't  the 
heart  to  rayfuse.  So  he  bint  down  an'  shook  the 
King's  hand.  "  I  promise,"  he  says. 

A  wild,  shrill  cheer  broke  from  the  throng  of  Little 
People. 

"  Now  I'll  go  home  an'  lave  yez  in  peace,"  says 
Father  Cassidy,  grippin'  his  bridle-rein.  "  I  came  yer 
inemy,  but  I'm  convarted.  I'll  go  back  yer  friend," 
he  says. 

"  Ye  won't  go  home  alone,  we'll  escorch  ye ! " 
shouted  Phadrig  Oge. 


Wullum   Fagin,  the  poacher,   was  sneakin'   home 
that  night  about  one  o'clock,  with  a  bag  full  of  rabbits 
undher  his  arrum,  whin  hearing  behind  him  the  bate 
[86] 


CONVAESION     OF     FATHER      CASSIDY 

of  horse's  hoofs  and  the  sound  of  maylodious  music, 
he  jumped  into  the  ditch  and  lay  close  within  the 
shadow. 

Who  should  come  canthering  up  the  starlit  road 
but  Father  Cassidy,  on  his  big  black  hunter,  Terror. 

Wullum  looked  for  the  musicianers  who  were  sing- 
ing and  playing  the  enthrancing  music,  but  sorra  one 
could  he  see,  and  what  was  more,  the  sounds  came 
from  the  air  high  above  Father  Cassidy's  head. 

"  'Tis  the  angels  guarding  the  good  man,"  says 
Wullum. 

Sure  'twas  only  the  Good  People  escorching  his 
Riverence  from  Darby  O'Gill's  house,  and  to  cheer 
him  on  his  way,  singing  the  while,  "  Believe  me,  if 
all  those  endearing  young  charms." 


[87] 


How  THE  FAIRIES  CAME  TO  IRELAND 


How  THE  FAIRIES  CAME  TO  IRELAND 


J.  HE  most  lonesome  bridle-path  in  all  Ireland  leads 
from  Tom  Healey's  cottage  down  the  sides  of  the  hills, 
along  the  edge  of  the  valley,  till  it  raiches  the  high- 
road that  skirts  the  great  mountain,  Sleive-na-mon. 

One  blusthering,  unaisy  night  Father  Cassidy,  on 
his  way  home  from  a  sick-call,  rode  over  that  same 
path.  It  wasn't  strange  that  the  priest,  as  his  horse 
ambled  along,  should  be  thinking  of  that  other  night 
in  Darby  O'Gill's  kitchen — the  night  when  he  met 
with  the  Good  People;  for  there,  off  to  the  left, 
towered  and  threatened  Sleive-na-mon,  the  home  of 
the  fairies. 

The  dismal  ould  mountain  glowered  toward  his 
Riverence,  its  dark  look  saying,  plain  as  spoken 
words : 

"  How  dare  ye  come  here ;  how  dare  ye  ?  " 

"  I  wondher,"  says  Father  Cassidy  to  himself,  look- 
[91] 


HOW     THE     FAIRIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

ing  up  at  the  black  hill,  "  if  the  Good  People  are 
fallen  angels,  as  some  do  be  saying. 

"  Why  were  they  banished  from  heaven  ?  It  must 
have  been  a  great  sin  entirely  they  committed,  at  any 
rate,  for  at  the  same  time  they  were  banished  the 
power  to  make  a  prayer  was  taken  from  them.  That's 
why  to  say  a  pious  word  to  a  fairy  is  like  trowing 
scalding  wather  on  him.  'Tis  a  hard  pinnance  that's 
put  on  the  poor  crachures.  I  wisht  I  knew  what  'twas 
for,"  he  says. 

He  was  goin'  on  pondherin'  in  that  way,  while  Ter- 
ror was  picking  his  steps,  narvous,  among  the  stones 
of  the  road,  whin  suddenly  a  frowning,  ugly  rock 
seemed  to  jump  up  and  stand  ferninst  them  at  a  turn 
of  the  path. 

Terror  shied  at  it,  stumbled  wild,  and  thin  the  most 
aggrewating  of  all  bothersome  things  happened — 
the  horse  cast  a  shoe  and  wint  stone  lame. 

In  a  second  the  priest  had  leaped  to  the  ground  and 
picked  up  the  horseshoe. 

"  Wirra !  Wirra !  "  says  he,  lifting  the  lame  foot, 
"  why  did  you  do  it,  alannah  ?  'Tis  five  miles  to  a 
smith  an'  seven  miles  to  your  own  warm  stable." 

The  horse,  for  answer,  raiched  down  an'  touched 
[92] 


HOW     THE     FAIRIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

with  his  soft  nose  the  priest's  cheek;  but  the  good 
man  looked  raproachful  into  the  big  brown  eyes  that 
turned  sorrowful  to  his  own. 

With  the  shoe  in  his  hand  the  priest  was  standin' 
fretting  and  helpless  on  the  lonesome  hillside,  won- 
dhering  what  he'd  do  at  all  at  all,  whin  a  sudden 
voice  spoke  up  from  somewhere  near  Terror's  knees. 

"  The  top  of  the  avinin'  to  your  Riverence,"  it 
said ;  "  I'm  sorry  for  your  bad  luck,"  says  the  voice. 

Looking  down,  Father  Cassidy  saw  a  little  cloaked 
figure,  and  caught  the  glint  of  a  goold  crown.  'Twas 
Brian  Connors,  the  King  of  the  Fairies,  himself,  that 
was  in  it. 

His  words  had  so  friendly  a  ring  in  them  that  the 
clargyman  smiled  in  answering,  "  Why,  thin,  good 
fortune  to  you,  King  Brian  Connors !  "  says  the  good 
man,  "  an'  save  you  kindly.  What  wind  brought 
you  here?  "  he  says. 

The  King  spoke  back  free  an'  pleasant.  "  The 
boys  tould  me  you  were  comin'  down  the  mountainy 
way,  and  I  came  up  just  in  time  to  see  your  misfort- 
une. I've  sent  for  Shaun  Rhue,  our  own  farrier — 
there's  no  betther  in  Ireland;  he'll  be  here  in  a  min- 
ute, so  don't  worry,"  says  the  King. 
[93] 


HOW     THE     FAIRIES     CAME     TO     I  E  E  L  A  N  1) 

The  priest  came  so  near  saying  "  God  bless  ye ! " 
that  the  King's  hair  riz  on  his  head.  But  Father 
Cassidy  stopped  in  the  nick  of  time,  changed  his 
coorse,  an'  steered  as  near  a  blessing  as  he  could  with- 
out hurting  the  Master  of  the  Good  People. 

"  Well,  may  you  never  hear  of  throuble,"  he  says, 
"  till  you're  wanted  to  its  wake,"  says  he. 

"There's  no  throuble  to-night  at  any  rate,"  says 
the  King,  "  for  while  Shaun  is  fixing  the  baste  we'll 
sit  in  the  shelter  of  that  rock  yonder ;  there  we'll  light 
our  pipes  and  divart  our  minds  with  pleasant  dis- 
coorsin'  and  wise  convarsaytion." 

While  the  King  spoke,  two  green-cloaked  little  men 
were  making  a  fire  for  the  smith  out  of  twigs.  So 
quick  did  they  work,  that  by  the  time  the  priest  and 
the  fairy-man  could  walk  over  to  the  stone  and  sit 
themselves  in  the  shelther,  a  thousand  goold  sparks 
were  dancin'  in  the  wind,  and  the  glimmer  of  a  foine 
blaze  fought  with  the  darkness. 

Almost  as  soon,  clear  and  purty,  rang  the  cheerful 
sound  of  an  anvil,  and  through  the  swaying  shadows 
a  dozen  busy  little  figures  were  working  about  the 
horse.  Some  wore  leather  aprons  and  hilt  up  the 
horse's  hoof  whilst  Shaun  fitted  the  red-hot  shoe; 
[94] 


HOW     THE     FAIUIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

others  blew  the  bellows  or  piled  fresh  sticks  on  the 
fire;  all  joking,  laughing,  singing,  or  thrickin';  one 
couldn't  tell  whether  'twas  playing  or  workin'  they 
were. 

Afther  lighting  their  pipes  and  paying  aich  other 
an  armful  of  complayments,  the  Master  of  Sleive-na- 
mon  and  the  clargyman  began  a  saryous  discoorse 
about  the  deloights  of  fox-hunting,  which  led  to  the 
considheration  of  the  wondherful  wisdom  of  racing 
horses  and  the  disgraceful  day-ter-ray-roaration  of 
the  Skibberbeg  hounds. 

Father  Cassidy  related  how  whin  Ned  Blaze's 
steeplechasin'  horse  had  been  entered  for  the  Conne- 
mara  Cup,  an'  found  out  at  the  last  minute  that  Ned 
feared  to  lay  a  bet  on  him,  the  horse  felt  himself  so 
stabbed  to  the  heart  with  shame  by  his  master's  dis- 
thrust  that  he  trew  his  jockey,  jumped  the  wall,  an', 
head  in  the  air,  galloped  home. 

The  King  then  tould  how  at  a  great  hunting  meet, 
whin  three  magisthrates  an'  two  head  excises  officers 
were  in  the  chase,  that  thief  of  the  worruld,  Let-Erin- 
Raymimber,  the  chief  hound  of  the  Skibberbeg  pack, 
instead  of  follying  the  fox,  led  the  whole  hunt  up 
over  the  mountain  to  Patrick  McCaffrey's  private 
[95] 


HOW     THE     FAIRIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

still.     The  entire  counthry-side  were  dhry  for  a  fort- 
nit  afther. 

Their  talk  in  that  way  dhrifted  from  one  pleasant 
subject  to  another,  till  Father  Cassidy,  the  sly  man, 
says  aisy  an*  careless,  "  I've  been  tould,"  says  he, 
"  that  before  the  Good  People  were  banished  from 
heaven  yez  were  all  angels,"  he  says. 

The  King  blew  a  long  thin  cloud  from  betwixt  his 
lips,  felt  his  whuskers  thoughtful  for  a  minute,  and 
then  said: 

"  No,"  he  says,  "  we  were  not  exactly  what  you 
might  call  angels.  A  rale  angel  is  taller  nor  your 
chapel." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  they're  like?  "  axed  Father 
Cassidy,  very  curious. 

"  I'll  give  you  an  idee  be  comparison  what  they're 
like,"  the  King  says.  "  They're  not  like  a  chapel, 
and  they're  not  like  a  three,  an'  they're  not  like  the 
ocean,"  says  he.  "  They're  different  from  a  goint 
— a  great  dale  different — and  they're  dissembler  to 
an  aygle;  in  fact,  you'd  not  mistake  one  of  them  for 
anything  you'd  ever  seen  before  in  your  whole  life. 
Now  you  have  a  purty  good  ideeah  what  they're  like," 
says  he. 

[96] 


HOW     THE     FAIRIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

"  While  I  think  of  it,"  says  the  fairy-man,  a  vexed 
frown  wrinkling  over  his  forehead,  "  there's  three 
young  bachelors  in  your  own  parish  that  have  a  fool- 
ish habit  of  callin'  their  colleens  angels  whin  they's 
not  the  laste  likeness — not  the  laste.  If  I  were  you, 
I'd  preach  agin  it,"  says  he. 

"  Oh,  I  dunno  about  that !  "  says  Father  Cassidy, 
fitting  a  live  coal  on  his  pipe.  "  The  crachures  must 
say  thim  things.  If  a  young  bachelor  only  talks  sen- 
sible to  a  sensible  colleen  he  has  a  good  chanst  to  stay 
a  bachelor.  An  thin  agin,  a  gossoon  who'll  talk  to 
his  sweetheart  about  the  size  of  the  petatie  crop'll 
maybe  bate  her  whin  they're  both  married.  But  this 
has  nothing  to  do  with  your  historical  obserwaytions. 
Go  on,  King,"  he  says. 

"  Well,  I  hate  foolishness,  wherever  it  is,"  says  the 
fairy.  "  Howsumever,  as  I  was  saying,  up  there  in 
heaven  they  called  us  the  Little  People,"  he  says; 
"  millions  of  us  flocked  together,  and  I  was  the  King 
of  them  all.  We  were  happy  with  one  another  as  birds 
of  the  same  nest,  till  the  ruction  came  on  betwixt  the 
black  and  the  white  angels. 

"  How  it  all  started  I  never  rightly  knew,  nor 
wouldn't  ask  for  fear  of  getting  implicayted.  I  bade 
[97] 


HOW     THE     FAIRIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

all  the  Little  People  keep  to  themselves  thin,  because 
we  had  plenty  of  friends  in  both  parties,  and  wanted 
throuble  with  nayther  of  them. 

"  I  knew  Ould  Nick  well ;  a  civiller,  pleasanter 
spoken  sowl  you  couldn't  wish  to  meet — a  little  too 
sweet  in  his  ways,  maybe.  He  gave  a  thousand  fa- 
vours and  civilities  to  my  subjects,  and  now  that  he's 
down,  the  devil  a  word  I'll  say  agin  him." 

"  I'm  agin  him,"  says  Father  Cassidy,  looking  very 
stern ;  "  I'm  agin  him  an'  all  his  pumps  an'  worruks. 
I'll  go  bail  that  in  the  ind  he  hurt  yez  more  than  he 
helped  yez ! " 

"  Only  one  thing  I  blame  him  for,"  says  the  King ; 
"  he  sajooced  from  the  Little  People  my  comrade  and 
best  friend,  one  Thaddeus  Flynn  be  name.  And  the 
way  that  it  was,  was  this:  Thaddeus  was  a  warm- 
hearted little  man,  but  monsthrous  high-spirited  as 
well  as  quick-tempered.  I  can  shut  me  eyes  now  and 
in  me  mind  see  him  thripping  along,  his  head  bent, 
his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  his  hands  behind  his  back.  He 
never  wore  a  waistcoat,  but  kept  always  his  green 
body-coat  buttoned.  A  tall  caubeen  was  set  on  the 
back  of  his  head,  with  a  sprig  of  green  shamrock  in 
[98] 


HOW     THE     FAIRIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

the  band.     There  was  a  thin  rim  of  black  whuskers 
undher  his  chin." 

Father  Cassidy,  liftin'  both  hands  in  wondher, 
said :  "  If  I  hadn't  baptised  him,  and  buried  his  good 
father  before  him,  I'd  swear  'twas  Michael  Pether 
McGilligan  of  this  parish  you  were  dayscribin'," 
says  he. 

"  The  McGilligans  ain't  dacint  enough,  nor  ray- 
fined  enough,  nor  proud  enough  to  be  fairies,"  says 
the  King,  wavin'  his  pipe  scornful.  "  But  to  ray- 
sume  and  to  continue,"  he  says. 

"  Thaddeus  and  I  used  to  frayquint  a  place  they 
called  the  battlements  or  parypets — which  was  a  great 
goold  wall  about  the  edge  of  heaven,  and  which  had 
wide  steps  down  on  the  outside  face,  where  one  could 
sit  pleasant  avenings  and  hang  his  feet  over,  or  where 
one'd  stand  before  going  to  take  a  fly  in  the  fresh 
air  for  himself. 

"  Well,  agra,  the  night  before  the  great  battle 
Thady  and  I  were  sitting  on  the  lowest  step,  looking 
down  into  league  upon  league  of  nothing,  and  talking 
about  the  world,  which  was  suxty  thousand  miles  be- 
low, and  hell,  which  was  tunty  thousand  miles  below 
that  agin,  when  who  should  come  blusthering  over  us, 
[99] 


HOW     THE     FAIRIES     CAME     TO     I  E  E  L  A  N  D 

his  black  wings  hiding  the  sky,  and  a  long  streak  of 
lightning  for  a  spear  in  his  fist,  but  Ould  Nick. 

" '  Brian  Connors,  how  long  are  you  going  to  be 
down-throdden  and  thrajooced  and  looked  down  upon 
• — you  and  your  subjects? '  says  he. 

"  *  Faix,  thin,  who's  doing  that  to  us  ?  '  asks  Thady, 
standing  up  and  growing  excited. 

"  *  Why,5  says  Ould  Nick,  *  were  you  made  little 
pigmies  to  be  the  laugh  and  the  scorn  and  the  mock 
of  the  whole  world  ?  '  he  says,  very  mad ;  '  why  weren't 
you  made  into  angels,  like  the  rest  of  us  ?  '  he  says. 

"  '  Musha,'  cries  Thady,  '  I  never  thought  of  that.' 

" '  Are  you  a  man  or  a  mouse ;  will  you  fight  for 
your  rights?  '  says  Sattin.  '  If  so,  come  with  me  and 
be  one  of  us.  For  we'll  bate  them  black  and  blue  to- 
morrow !  *  he  says.  Thady  needed  no  second  axing. 

"  '  I'll  go  with  ye,  Sattin,  me  dacent  man,'  cried  he. 
'  Wirra !  Wirra !  To  think  of  how  down-throdd-m 
we  are ! '  And  with  one  spring  Thady  was  on  Ould 
Nick's  chowlders,  and  the  two  flew  away  like  a  hum- 
ming-bird riding  on  the  back  of  an  aygle. 

"  '  Take  care  of  yerself ,  Brian,'  says  Thady,  *  and 
come  over  to  see  the  fight ;  I'm  to  be  in  it,  and  I  ex- 
tind  you  the  inwitation,'  he  says. 
[100] 


HOW     THE     FAIRIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

"  In  the  morning  the  battle  opened ;  one  line  of 
black  angels  stretched  clear  across  heaven,  and  faced 
another  line  of  white  angels,  with  a  walley  between. 

"  Everyone  had  a  spaking-trumpet  in  his  hand, 
like  you  see  in  the  pictures,  and  they  called  aich  other 
hard  names  across  the  walley.  As  the  white  angels 
couldn't  swear  or  use  bad  langwidge,  Ould  Nick's 
army  had  at  first  in  that  way  a  great  advantage.  But 
when  it  came  to  hurling  hills  and  shying  tunderbolts 
at  aich  other  the  black  angels  were  bate  from  the  first. 

"  Poor  little  Thaddeus  Flynn  stood  amongst  his 
own,  in  the  dust  and  the  crash  and  the  roar,  brave  as 
a  lion.  He  couldn't  hurl  mountains,  nor  was  he  much 
at  flinging  lightning  bolts,  but  at  calling  hard  names 
he  was  aquil  to  the  best. 

"  I  saw  him  take  off  his  coat,  trow  it  on  the  ground, 
and  shake  his  pipe  at  a  thraymendous  angel.  '  You 
owdacious  villain,'  he  cried,  *  I  dare  you  to  come  half 
way  over ! '  he  says. 

"  My,  oh,  my,  whin  the  armies  met  together  in  the 
rale  handy  grips,  it  must  have  been  an  illegent 
sight !  "  says  Father  Cassidy.  "  'Tis  a  wondher  you 
kep'  out  of  it,"  says  he. 

"  I  always  belayved,"  says  the  King,  "  that  if  he 
[101] 


HOW     THE     FAIRIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

can  help  it,  no  one  should  fight  whin  he's  sure  to  get 
hurted,  onless  it's  his  juty  to  fight.  To  fight  for  the 
mere  sport  of  it,  when  a  throuncin'  is  sartin,  is  wast- 
ing your  time  and  hurtin'  your  repitation.  I  know 
there's  plenty  thinks  different,"  he  says,  p'inting  his 
pipe.  "  I  may  be  wrong,  an'  I  won't  argyf y  the  mat- 
ther.  'Twould  have  been  betther  for  myself  that  day 
if  I  had  acted  on  the  other  principle. 

"  Howsumever,  be  the  time  that  everybody  was 
sidestepping  mountains  and  dodging  tunderbolts,  I 
says  to  myself,  says  I,  '  This  is  no  place  fer  you  or 
the  likes  of  you.'  So  I  took  all  me  own  people  out 
to  the  battlements  and  hid  them  out  of  the  way  on 
the  lower  steps.  We'd  no  sooner  got  placed  whin — 
whish!  a  black  angel  shot  through  the  air  over  our 
heads,  and  began  falling  down,  down,  down,  and 
down,  till  he  was  out  of  sight.  Then  a  score  of  his 
friends  came  tumbling  over  the  battlements ;  imagetly 
hundreds  of  others  came  whirling,  and  purty  soon  it 
was  raining  black  wings  down  into  the  gulf. 

"  In  the  midst  of  the  turmile  who  should  come 
jumping  down  to  me,  all  out  of  breath,  but  Thady. 

"  '  It's  all  over,  Brian ;  we're  bate  scandalous,'  he 
says,  swinging  his  arms  for  a  spring,  and  balancing 
[102] 


HOW     THE     FAIRIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

himself  up  and  down  on  the  edge  of  the  steps. 
'  Maybe  you  wouldn't  think  it  of  me,  Brian  Connors, 
but  I'm  a  fallen  angel,'  says  he. 

"  *  Wait  a  bit,  Thaddeus  Flynn ! '  says  I.  '  Don't 
jump ! '  I  says. 

"  *  I  must  jump,'  he  says,  *  or  I'll  be  trun,'  says  he. 

"  The  next  thing  I  knew  he  was  swirling  and  dart- 
ing and  shooting  a  mile  below  me. 

"  And  I  know,"  says  the  King,  wiping  his  eyes 
with  his  cloak,  "  that  when  the  Day  of  Judgment 
comes  I'll  have  at  laste  one  friend  waiting  for  me 
below  to  show  me  the  coolest  spots  and  the  pleasant 
places. 

"  The  next  minute  up  came  the  white  army  with 
presners— angels,  black  and  white,  who  had  taken  no 
side  in  the  battle,  but  had  stood  apart  like  ourselves. 

"  '  A  man,'  says  the  Angel  Gabriel,  '  who,  for  fear 
of  his  skin,  won't  stand  for  the  right  when  the  right 
is  in  danger,  may  not  desarve  hell,  but  he's  not  fit  for 
heaven.  Fill  up  the  stars  with  these  cowards  and 
throw  the  lavin's  into  the  say ! '  he  ordhered. 

"  With  that  he  swung  a  lad  in  the  air,  and  gave 
him  a  fling  that  sent  him  ten  miles  out  intil  the  sky. 
Every  other  good  angel  follyed  shuit,  and  I  watched 
[103] 


HOW     THE     FAIBIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

thousands  go,  till  they  faded  like  a  stretch  of  black 
smoke  a  hundred  miles  below. 

"  The  Angel  Gabriel  turned  and  saw  me,  and  I 
must  confess  I  shivered. 

" '  Well,  King  Brian  Connors,'  says  he,  '  I  hope 
you  see  that  there's  such  a  thing  as  being  too  wise 
and  too  cute  and  too  ticklish  of  yourself.  I  can't  send 
you  to  the  stars,  bekase  they're  full,  and  I  won't  send 
you  to  the  bottomless  pit  so  long  as  I  can  help  it. 
I'll  send  yez  all  down  to  the  world.  We're  going  to 
put  human  beans  on  it  purty  soon,  though  they're 
going  to  turn  out  to  be  blaggards,  and  at  last  we'll 
have  to  burn  the  place  up.  Afther  that,  if  you're 
still  there,  you  and  yours  must  go  to  purdition,  for 
it's  the  only  place  left  for  you.' 

"  'You're  too  hard  on  the  little  man,'  says  the  Angel 
Michael,  coming  up — St.  Michael  was  ever  the  out- 
spoken, friendly  person — '  sure,  what  harm,  or  what 
hurt,  or  what  good  could  he  have  done  us?  And  can 
you  blame  the  poor  little  crachures  for  not  interfer- 
ing?' 

*'  *  Maybe  I  was  too  harsh,'  says  the  Angel  Gabriel, 
'  but  being  saints,  when  we  say  a  thing  we  must  stick 
to  it.  Howsumever,  I'll  let  him  settle  in  any  part  of 
[104] 


HOW     THE     FAIBIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

the  world  he  likes,  and  I'll  send  there  the  kind  of 
human  beans  he'd  wish  most  for.  Now,  give  your 
ordher,'  he  says  to  me,  taking  out  his  book  and  pen- 
cil, '  and  I'll  make  for  you  the  kind  of  people  you'd 
like  to  live  among.' 

"  *  Well,'  says  I,  '  I'd  like  the  men  honest  and 
brave,  and  the  women  good.' 

"  '  Very  well,'  he  says,  writing  it  down ;  *  I've  got 
that — go  on.' 

"  *  And  I'd  like  them  full  of  jollity  and  sport,  fond 
of  racing  and  singing  and  hunting  and  fighting,  and 
all  such  innocent  divarsions.' 

"  '  You'll  have  no  complaint  about  that,'  says  he. 

" '  And,'  says  I,  *  I'd  like  them  poor  and  parse- 
cuted,  bekase  when  a  man  gets  rich  there's  no  more 
fun  in  him.' 

"'Yes,  I'll  fix  that.  Thrue  for  you,'  says  the 
Angel  Gabriel,  writing. 

"  *  And  I  don't  want  them  to  be  Christians,'  says 
I ;  *  make  them  Haythens  or  Pagans,  for  Christians 
are  too  much  worried  about  the  Day  of  Judgment.' 

"  '  Stop  there !    Say  no  more ! '  says  the  saint.    *  If 
I  make  as  fine  a  race  of  people  as  that  I  won't  send 
them  to  hell  to  plaze  you,  Brian  Connors.' 
[  105  ] 


HOW     THE     FAIRIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

"  '  At  laste,'  says  I,  *  make  them  Jews.' 

"  '  If  I  made  them  Jews,'  he  says,  slowly  screwing 
up  one  eye  to  think,  '  how  could  you  keep  them  poor? 
No,  no ! ?  he  said,  shutting  up  the  book,  '  go  your 
ways ;  you  have  enough.' 

"  I  clapped  me  hands,  and  all  the  Little  People 
stood  up  and  bent  over  the  edge,  their  fingers  pointed 
like  swimmers  going  to  dive.  '  One,  two,  three,'  I 
shouted,  and  with  that  we  took  the  leap. 

"  We  were  two  years  and  tunty-six  days  falling  be- 
fore we  raiched  the  world.  On  the  morning  of  the 
next  day  we  began  our  sarch  for  a  place  to  live.  We 
thravelled  from  north  to  south  and  from  ayst  to  west. 
Some  grew  tired  and  dhropped  off  in  Spain,  some  in 
France,  and  others  agin  in  different  parts  of  the 
world.  But  the  most  of  us  thravelled  ever  and 
ever  till  we  came  to  a  lovely  island  that  glim- 
mered and  laughed  and  sparkled  in  the  middle  of  the 
say. 

" '  We'll  stop  here,'  I  says ;  *  we  needn't  sarch 
farther,  and  we  needn't  go  back  to  Italy  or  Swizzer- 
land,  for  of  all  places  on  the  earth  this  island  is  the 
nearest  like  heaven;  and  in  it  the  County  Clare  and 
the  County  Tipperary  are  the  purtiest  spots  of  all.' 
[106] 


HOW     THE     FAIRIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

So  we  hollowed  out  the  great  mountain  Sleive-na-mon 
for  our  home,  and  there  we  are  till  this  day." 

The  King  stopped  a  while,  and  sat  houldin'  his 
chin  in  his  hands.  "  That's  the  thrue  story,"  he  says, 
sighing  pitiful.  "  We  took  sides  with  nobody,  we 
minded  our  own  business,  and  we  got  trun  out  for  it," 
says  he. 

So  intherested  was  Father  Cassidy  in  the  talk  of  the 
King  that  the  singing  and  hammering  had  died  out 
without  his  knowing,  and  he  hadn't  noticed  at  all  how 
the  darkness  had  thickened  in  the  valley,  and  how  the 
stillness  had  spread  over  the  hillside.  But  now,  whin 
the  chief  of  the  fairies  stopped,  the  good  man,  half 
frightened  at  the  silence,  jumped  to  his  feet  and 
turned  to  look  for  his  horse. 

Beyond  the  dull  glow  of  the  dying  fire  a  crowd  of 
Little  People  stood  waiting,  patient  and  quiet,  hould- 
ing  Terror,  who  champed  restless  at  his  bit,  and  bate 
impatient  with  his  hoof  on  the  hard  ground. 

As  the  priest  looked  toward  them,  two  of  the  little 
men  wearing  leather  aprons  moved  out  from  the 
others,  leading  the  baste  slow  and  careful  over  to 
where  the  good  man  stood  beside  the  rock. 

"  You've  done  me  a  faver  this  night,"  says  the 
[107] 


HOW     THE     FAIRIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

clargyman,  gripping  with  his  bridle-hand  the  horse's 
mane,  "  an'  all  I  have  to  pay  it  back  with'd  only  harry 
you  an'  make  you  oncomfortable,  so  I'll  not  say  the 
words,"  he  says. 

"  No  faver  at  all,"  says  the  King,  "  but  before  an 
hour  there'll  be  lyin'  on  your  own  threshold  a  faver 
in  the  shape  of  a  bit  of  as  fine  bacon  as  ever  laughed 
happy  in  the  middle  of  biling  turnips.  We  borryed 
it  last  night  from  a  magisthrate  named  Blake,  who 
lives  up  in  the  County  Wexford,"  he  says. 

The  clargyman  had  swung  himself  into  the  sad- 
dle. 

"  I'd  be  loathe  to  say  anything  disrayspectful,"  he 
says  quick,  "  or  to  hurt  sensitive  feelings,  but  on  ac- 
count of  my  soul's  sake  I  couldn't  ate  anything  that 
was  come  by  dishonest,"  he  says. 

"  Bother  and  botheration,  look  at  that,  now !  "  says 
the  King.  "  Every  thrade  has  its  drawbacks,  but  I 
never  rayalized  before  the  hardship  of  being  a  parish 
priest.  Can't  we  manage  it  some  way?  Couldn't  I 
put  it  some  place  where  you  might  find  it,  or  give  it 
to  a  friend  who'd  send  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  Stop  a  minute,"  says  Father  Cassidy.  "  Up  at 
Tom  Healey's  I  think  there's  more  hunger  than  sick- 
[108] 


HOW     THE     FAIBIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

ness,  more  nade  for  petaties  than  for  physic.  Now, 
if  you  send  that  same  bit  of  bacon " 

"  Oh,  ho !  "  says  the  King,  with  a  dhry  cough,  "  the 
Healeys  have  no  sowls  to  save,  the  same  as  parish 
priests  have." 

"  I'm  a  poor,  wake,  miserable  sinner,"  says  the 
priest,  hanging  his  head ;  "  I  fall  at  the  first  temp- 
tation. Don't  send  it,"  says  he. 

"  Since  you  forbid  me,  I'll  send  it,"  says  the  King, 
chucklin'.  "  I'll  not  be  ruled  by  you.  To-morrow 
the  Healeys'll  have  five  tinder-hearted  heads  of  cab- 
bage, makin'  love  in  a  pot  to  the  finest  bit  of  bacon 
in  Tipperary — that  is,  unless  you  do  your  juty  an' 
ride  back  to  warn  them.  Raymember  their  poor 
sowls,"  says  he,  "  an'  don't  forget  your  own,"  he 
says. 

The  priest  sat  unaisy  in  the  saddle.  "  I'll  put  all 
the  raysponsibility  on  Terror,"  he  says.  "  The  baste 
has  no  sowl  to  lose.  I'll  just  drop  the  reins  on  his 
neck ;  if  he  turns  and  goes  back  to  Healey's  I'll  warn 
them ;  if  he  goes  home  let  it  be  on  his  own  conscience." 

He  dhropped  the  reins,  and  the  dishonest  baste 
started  for  home  imagetly. 

But  afther  a  few  steps  Father  Cassidy  dhrew  up 
[109] 


HOW     THE     FAIKIES     CAME     TO     IRELAND 

an'  turned  in  the  saddle.  Not  a  sowl  was  in  sight; 
there  was  only  the  lonely  road  and  the  lonesome  hill- 
side ;  the  last  glimmer  of  the  fairy -fire  was  gone,  and 
a  curtain  of  soft  blackness  had  fallen  betwixt  him  an* 
where  the  blaze  had  been. 

"  I  bid  you  good  night,  Brian  Connors !  "  the  priest 
cried.  From  somewhere  out  of  the  darkness  a  woice 
called  back  to  him,  "  Good  night,  your  Riverence ! " 


[110] 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  KING  BRIAN  CONNORS 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  KING  BRIAN  CONNORS 


CHAPTER    I 

THE   KING   AND   THE    OMADHAUN  * 

.LlID  your  honour  ever  hear  how  Anthony  Sullivan's 
goat  came  to  join  the  fairies? 

Well,  it's  a  quare  story  and  a  wandhering,  quarrel- 
some story,  as  a  tale  about  a  goat  is  sure  to  be. 
Howsumever,  in  the  home  of  the  Good  People — which, 
as  you  know,  is  the  hollow  heart  of  the  great  moun- 
tain Sleive-na-mon — Anthony  Sullivan's  goat  lives 
and  prospers  to  this  day,  a  pet  and  a  hayro  among 
the  fairies. 

And  this  is  the  way  it  came  about : 

All  the  world  knows  how  for  months  Darby  O'Gill 

an'  his  purty  sister-in-law,  Maureen  McGibney,  were 

kept  presners  by  the  Good  People;  an'  how,  afther 

*  Omadhaun,  a  foolish  fellow. 

[113] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

they  were  relaysed  by  the  King,  that  same  little  fairy, 
King  Brian  Connors,  used  often  to  visit  thim  an'  sit 
with  thim  colloguin'  and  debaytin'  an'  considherin' 
in  Darby  O'Gill's  kitchen. 

One  lonesome  Decimber  night,  when  Bridget  and 
the  childher  were  away  visiting  Bridget's  father  at 
Ballingher,  and  the  angry  blast  was  screaming  and 
dhrifting  the  first  white  flakes  of  winther  around 
Darby's  house,  thin  it  was  that  Darby  O'Gill,  Brian 
Connors,  the  King  of  the  Good  People,  and  Maureen 
McGibney  sat  with  their  heads  together  before  the 
blazing  hearth.  The  King,  being  not  much  higher 
than  your  two  hands,  sat  on  the  child's  stool  betwixt 
the  other  two,  his  green  cloak  flung  back  from  his 
chowlders,  and  the  goold  crown  on  his  head  glistening 
in  the  firelight. 

It  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  watch  them  there  in  the 
flickering  hearth  glow.  From  time  to  time,  as  he 
talked,  the  ould  King  patted  Maureen's  hands  and 
looked  smiling  up  into  her  purty  gray  eyes.  They 
had  been  discoursing  on  the  subject  of  Throubles  and 
Thribulations. 

"  Arrah !  You  ought  to  be  the  happy  man,  King," 
Darby  says,  sipping  his  noggin  of  punch,  **  with  no 
[114] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BKIAN    CONNOES 

silly  woman  to  ordher  you  or  to  cross  you  or  to  belittle 
you.  Look  at  meself.  Afther  all  the  rayspect  I've 
climbed  into  from  being  with  the  fairies,  and  afther 
all  the  knowledge  I've  got  from  them,  there's  one  per- 
son in  this  parish  who  has  no  more  riverence  for  me 
now  than  she  had  the  first  day  she  met  me — sometimes 
not  so  much,  I'm  thinking,"  he  says,  hurt-like. 

"  I've  seen  the  workings  of  families  during  more 
than  five  thousand  years,"  says  the  little  King,  "  so 
you  needn't  tell  me  who  that  one  person  is,  me  poor 
man — 'tis  your  own  wife,  Bridget." 

"  Thrue  for  you !  Whin  it's  the  proud  woman  she 
ought  to  be  this  day  to  have  the  likes  of  me  for  a  hus- 
band," says  Darby.  "  Ah,  then,  you  ought  to  be  the 
happy  man,  whatever  wind  blows,"  he  sighed  again; 
*'  when  you  see  a  fat  pig  you  like,  you  take  it  without 
so  much  as  saying  by  your  lave ;  if  you  come  upon  a 
fine  cow  or  a  good  horse,  in  a  twinkling  you  have  it 
in  Sleive-na-mon.  A  girl  has  a  good  song  with  her, 
a  boy  has  a  nimble  foot  for  a  jig,  or  an  ould  woman 
a  smooth  tongue  for  a  tale,  and,  whisk !  they're  gone 
into  the  heart  of  the  mountain  to  sing  or  dance  for 
you,  or  to  beguile  you  with  ould  tales  until  the  Day 
of  Judgment." 

[115] 


ADVENTUBES    OF    KING    BEIAN    CONNORS 

The  King  shook  his  head  slowly,  and  drew  a  long 
face. 

"  Maybe  we  ought  to  be  happy,"  says  he.  "  'Tis 
thrue  there's  no  sickness  in  Sleive-na-mon,  nor  worry 
for  to-morrow,  nor  fret  for  one's  childher,  nor  part- 
ing from  friends,  or  things  like  that,  but  throuble  is 
like  the  dhrif ting  snow  outside,  Darby ;  it  falls  on  the 
cottage  and  it  covers  the  castle  with  the  same  touch, 
and  once  in  a  while  it  sifts  into  Sleive-na-mon." 

"  In  the  name  of  goodness !  "  cries  Darby,  sur- 
prised, "  is  there  anything  in  the  whole  world  you 
can't  have  for  the  wishing  it?  " 

The  King  took  off  his  goold  crown  and  began  pol- 
ishing it  with  his  sleeve  to  hide  his  narvousness.  "  I'll 
tell  you  a  saycret,"  he  whuspered,  bending  over  tow- 
ard Darby,  and  speaking  slow.  "  In  Sleive-na-mon 
our  hearts  are  just  breaking  for  something  we  can't 
get ;  but  that's  one  thing  we'd  give  the  worruld  for." 

"  Oh,  King,  what  in  the  livin'  worruld  can  it  be?  " 
cried  Maureen. 

"  I'd  give  the  teeth  out  of  me  head  if  I  could  only 
own  a  goat,"  says  the  King,  looking  as  though  he 
were  going  to  cry. 

"  Man  alive ! "  says  Darby,  dhropping  the  poker, 
[116] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

"  the  counthry-side  is  full  of  goats,  and  all  you  have 
to  do  is  to  take  your  pick  and  help  yourself.  You're 
making  game  of  us,  King." 

The  King  shook  his  head.  "  The  Good  People  have 
been  thrying  for  years  to  capture  one,"  says  he. 
"  I've  been  bunted  into  ditches  by  the  villains ;  I've 
been  trun  over  hedges  by  them ;  I  had  to  leap  on  the 
back  of  Anthony  Sullivan's  goat,  and  with  two  hun- 
dred of  me  subjects  in  full  cry  behind,  ride  him  all 
night  long,  houlding  by  his  horns  to  kape  him  from 
getting  at  me  and  disthroying  me  entirely.  The 
jumps  he  took  with  me  that  night  were  thraymendous. 
It  was  from  the  cow-shed  to  the  sthraw-stack,  from  the 
sthraw-stack  to  the  house-top,  and  from  there  down 
to  the  ground  agin,  and  then  hooraying  an'  hooroo- 
ing,  a  race  up  the  mountain-side.  But,"  says  the 
King,  kind  o'  sniffling  an'  turning  to  the  fire,  "  we 
love  the  ground  he  walks  upon,"  says  he. 

"  Tare  an'  ouns !  "  says  Darby,  "  why  don't  you 
put  your  spell  on  one  of  them  ?  " 

"  You  don't  know  them,"  says  the  King.  "  We 
can't  put  the  black  spell  on  thim — they're  not  Chris- 
tian bastes,  like  pigs  or  cows.  Whin  it  comes  to  ani- 
mals, we  can  only  put  our  come  'ither  on  cattle  and 
[117] 


ADVENTUEES    OF    KING    BEIAN    CONNOES 

horses,  and  such  as  are  Christian  animals,  ye  know. 
In  his  mind  and  in  his  heart  a  goat  is  a  pagen.  He 
wouldn't  ask  any  betther  divarsion  than  for  me  to 
thry  and  lay  me  hands  on  him,"  says  the  King,  wip- 
ing his  eyes. 

"  But,"  says  he  agin,  standing  up  on  the  stool  and 
houlding  his  pipe  over  his  head,  "  Anthony  Sullivan's 
goat  is  the  gallusest  baste  that  roams  the  fields! 
There's  more  fun  in  him,  and  no  more  fear  in  him, 
than  in  a  yallow  lion.  He'd  do  anything  for  sport; 
he'd  bunt  the  King  of  Russia,  he'd  ba-a  at  a  parish 
priest,  out  of  pure,  rollicking  divilment,"  says  the 
King.  "  If  the  Good  People  had  a  friend,  a  rale 
friend,"  says  he,  looking  hard  at  Darby,  "  that 
wouldn't  be  afeard  to  go  into  our  home  within  the 
mountain  once  more,  just  once,  and  bring  with  him 
that  goat " 

"  Say  no  more,"  says  Darby,  hoarsely,  and  turn- 
ing white  with  fear — "  say  no  more,  Brian  Connors ! 
Not  all  the  goold  in  Sleive-na-mon  would  tempt  me 
there  agin !  It's  make  a  presner  of  me  for  ever  you 
would.  I  know  your  thricks." 

The  look  of  scorn  the  little  man  flung  at  Darby 
would  have  withered  the  threes. 
[118] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

" 1  might  have  known  it,"  he  says,  sitting  down 
disgusted.  "  I  was  a  fool  for  hoping  you  would," 
says  he.  "  There's  no  more  spirit  in  ye  nor  sinse  of 
gratichude  than  in  a  hin.  Wait  till! — "  and  he 
shook  his  fist. 

"  Don't  blame  the  lad,"  cried  Maureen,  patting  the 
King's  head,  sootheringly ;  "  sure,  why  should  the  like 
of  a  wondherf ul  man,  such  as  you,  who  has  lived  five 
thousand  years,  and  knows  everything,  compare  your 
wit  or  your  spirit  or  your  sinse  with  the  likes  of  us 
poor  crachures  that  only  stay  here  a  few  hours  and 
thin  are  gone  for  ever?  "  This  she  cried,  craftily, 
flatthering  the  ould  man.  "  Be  aisy  on  him,  King, 
acushla !  "  says  she,  coaxing. 

Well,  the  little  man,  being  soothered,  sat  down 
agin.  "  Maybe  I  was  too  hard,"  he  says,  "  but  to 
tell  the  truth,  the  life  is  just  bothered  out  of  me,  and 
my  temper  is  runed  these  days  with  an  omadhaun 
we've  taken  lately ;  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  him. 
Talk  of  throuble !  He  mopes  and  mourns  and 
moothers  in  spite  of  all  we  can  do.  I've  even  tould 
him  where  the  crocks  of  goold  are  hid " 

"  You  haven't  tould  me  that,"  cries  Darby, 
quickly. 

[119] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

"  No,"  says  the  King,  looking  at  him  sideways. 

"  At  laste  not  yit,"  says  Darby,  looking  sideways 
at  the  King. 

"  Not  yit,  nor  will  I  fer  a  long  time  yitter,  you 
covetous,  ungrateful  spalpeen !  "  snapped  the  fairy. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  paying  no  more  attention  to 
Darby,  "  this  young  omadhaun  is  six  feet  high  in 
his  stockings,  and  as  foine  a  looking  lad  as  you'll  see 
in  a  day's  walk.  Now  what  do  you  think  he's  mourn- 
ing and  crooning  for  ?  " 

"  Faix,  I  dunno,"  answered  Darby.  "  Maybe  it's 
a  horse  or  a  dog  or  a  cow,  or  maybe  a  pair  of  pigs." 

"  You've  not  hit  it,"  said  the  Ruler  of  the  Good 
People ;  "  it's  a  colleen.  And  him  having  a  college 
education,  too." 

"  Troth,  thin,"  said  Darby,  with  a  knowledgeable 
wag  of  his  head,  "  some  of  them  larned  students  are 
as  foolish  in  that  way  as  ignorant  people.  I  once  met 
a  tinker  named  Larry  McManus,  who  knew  the  jog- 
raphy  from  cover  to  cover,  and  still  he  had  been  mar- 
ried three  times." 

"  Poor  gossoon !  Who  is  the  omadhaun  ?  "  asked 
Maureen,  not  minding  Darby. 

"  He's  no  less,"  said  the  King,  "  than  Roger 
[120] 


ADVENTUEES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

O'Brien,  a  son  of  ould  Bob  O'Brien,  who  was  the 
richest  and  proudest  man  in  the  County  Tipperary. 
Ould  Bob  thraces  his  ancestors  for  five  hundhred 
years,  and  he  owns  a  mile  of  land  and  has  forty  ten- 
ants. He  had  no  child  but  this  omadhaun." 

"  And  who  is  the  colleen  ?  Some  grand  Princess, 
I  suppose,"  said  Maureen. 

"  There  was  the  whole  throuble,"  answered  the  lit- 
tle man.  "  Why,  she's  no  one  at  all,  but  a  little  white- 
cheeked,  brown-eyed,  black-haired  girl  named  Norah 
Costello,  belonging  to  one  of  his  own  tenants  on  the 
domain.  It  all  came  from  eddicatin'  people  above 
their  station." 

"  Faix,"  Darby  says,  "  there's  Phelem  Brady,  the 
stonecutter,  a  fine,  dacint  man  he  was  till  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  lam  the  history  of  Ireland  from  ind 
to  ind.  When  he  got  so  far  as  where  the  Danes  killed 
Brian  Boru  he  took  to  dhrink,  and  the  divil  a 
ha'porth's  good  he's  been  ever  since.  But  lade  on 
with  your  discoorse,  King,"  says  he,  waving  his  nog- 
gin of  punch. 

At  this  the  King  filled  his  pipe,  Maureen  threw 
fresh  turf  on  the  fire,  and  the  wind  dhrew  the  sparks 
dancing  up  the  chimney.  Now  and  thin  while  the 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNOE8 

King  talked,  some  of  the  fairies  outside  rapped  on  the 
window-panes  and  pressed  their  little  faces  against 
the  glass  to  smile  and  nod  at  those  within,  thin  scur- 
ried busily  off  agin  intil  the  darkness.  Once  the  wail 
of  a  child  rose  above  the  cry  of  the  storm,  and  Mau- 
reen caught  the  flash  of  a  white  robe  against  the  win- 
dow-pane. 

"  It's  a  child  we've  taken  this  night  from  one  Jude 
Casey  down  in  Mayo,"  says  King  Brian  Connors. 
"  But  fill  my  noggin  with  fresh  punch,  Maureen,  and 
dhraw  closter  till  I  tell  you  about  the  omadhaun." 
And  the  Master  of  the  Good  People  crossed  his  legs 
and  settled  into  telling  the  story,  comfortable  as  com- 
fortable could  be. 

"  The  way  the  throuble  began  was  foine  and  inno- 
cent as  the  day  is  long,"  said  the  King.  "  Five  or  six 
years  ago — it  was  on  the  day  Roger  was  first  sent  to 
college  at  Dublin — Misther  and  Misthress  O'Brien, 
mighty  lonesome  an'  down-hearted,  were  dhriving 
over  the  estate  whin  who  should  they  spy  standing, 
modest  and  timid,  at  her  own  gate,  but  purty  little 
Norah  Costello.  Though  the  child  was  only  fourteen 
years  old,  Misthress  O'Brien  was  so  taken  with  her 
wise,  gentle  ways  that  Norah  next  day  was  sint  for 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

to  come  up  to  the  big  house  to  spind  an  hour  amusing 
the  Misthress.  There  was  the  rock  they  all  split  on. 

Every  day  afther  for  a  month  the  little  girl  went 
visiting  there.  At  the  end  of  that  time  Misthress 
O'Brien  grew  so  fond  of  her  that  Norah  was  brought 
to  the  big  house  to  live.  Ould  Bob  liked  the  little  girl 
monsthrous  well,  so  they  put  fine  clothes  on  her  until 
in  a  couple  of  years  one  couldn't  tell  her  from  a  rale 
lady,  whether  he  met  her  in  the  house  or  at  the  cross- 
road. 

Only  every  Saturday  night  she'd  put  on  a  little 
brown  poplin  dhress  and  go  to  her  father's  cottage, 
and  stay  there  helping  her  mother  till  Monday  or 
maybe  Chewsday.  '  For  I  mustn't  get  proud-hearted,' 
she'd  say,  *  or  lose  the  love  I  was  born  to,  for  who  can 
tell  whin  I'll  need  it,'  says  she. 

"  A  wise  girl,"  says  Darby. 

"  A  dear  colleen,"  says  Maureen. 

"  Well,  every  summer  me  brave  Roger  came  home 
from  college,  and  the  two  rode  together  afther  the 
hounds,  or  sailed  his  boat  or  roved  the  woods,  and  the 
longest  summer  days  were  too  short  entirely  to  suit 
the  both  of  them. 

"  Although  she  had  a  dozen  young  fellows  courting 
[123] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CON  NOES 

her — some  of  them  gentlemen's  sons — the  divil  an  eye 
she  had  for  anyone  except  Roger;  and  although  he 
might  pick  from  twinty  of  the  bluest-blooded  ladies 
in  Ireland  any  day  he  liked,  Norah  was  his  one  de- 
light. 

"  Every  servant  on  the  place  knew  how  things  were 
going,  but  the  ould  man  was  so  blind  with  pride  that 
he  saw  nothing  at  all ;  stranger  than  all,  the  two  chil- 
dher  believed  that  ould  Bob  guessed  the  way  tilings 
were  with  them  an'  was  plazed  with  them.  A  worse 
mistake  was  never  made.  He  never  dhramed  that  his 
son  Roger  would  think  of  any  girl  without  a  fortune 
or  a  title. 

"  Misthress  O'Brien  must  have  known,  but,  being 
tendher-hearted  and  loving  and,  like  all  women,  a 
trifle  weak-minded,  hoped,  in  spite  of  rayson,  that  her 
husband  would  consint  to  let  the  childher  marry. 
Knowing  ould  Bob  as  she  knew  him,  that  was  a  wild 
thought  for  Misthress  O'Brien  to  have;  for  if  ever 
there  was  a  stiffer,  bittherer,  prouder,  more  unforgiv- 
ing, boistherous  man  I  haven't  seen  him,  and  I've  lived 
five  thousand  years." 

Darby,  scowling  mighty  important,  raised  his  hand. 
"  Whist  a  bit,"  he  says ;  "  you  raymind  me  of  the  bal- 
[124] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

lad  about  Lord  Skipperbeg's  lovely  daughter  and 
the  farmer's  only  son."  Stretching  his  legs  an*  wag- 
ging his  head,  he  sang : 

"  Her  cheeks  were  like  the  lily  white, 
Her  neck  was  like  the  rose. " 

"  Oh,  my  !  oh,  my !  "  said  the  King,  surprised,  "  was 
her  neck  as  red  as  that?  " 

.  "  By  no  manes,"  said  Darby.  "  I  med  a  mistake ; 
'twas  this  away : 

"  Her  neck  was  like  the  lily  white, 
Her  cheeks  were  like  the  rose, 
She  quickly  doffed  her  silk  attire 
And  donned  a  yeoman's  clothes. 

"  '  Rise  up,  rise  up,  my  farmer's  son, 

Rise  up  thrue  love,'  says  she, 
'  We'll  fly  acrost  the  ragiri  main 
Unto  Amer-i ' " 

"  Have  done  you're  fooling,  Darby,"  says  Mau- 
reen ;  "  you  have  the  King  bothered." 

"  I  wisht  you  hadn't  shtopped  him,  agra,"  says  the 
King.  "  I  niver  heard  that  song  before,  an'  it  prom- 
ised well.  I'm  fond  of  love  songs,"  he  says. 

"  But  the  omadhaun,"  coaxed  the  colleen. 
[125] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

"  I  forgot  where  I  was,"  the  King  says,  scratching 
his  head.  "  But,  spaking  of  ould  Bob,"  he  wint  on, 
"  no  one  ever  thought  how  evil  and  bitther  he  could 
be,  until  his  son,  the  foolish  lad,  a  few  days  before 
the  ind  of  his  schooling,  wrote  to  the  father  that  he 
wanted  to  marry  Norah  whin  he  came  home,  and  that 
he  would  be  home  in  a  few  days,  he  thought.  He 
was  breaking  the  news  aisy  to  the  family,  d'ye  see ! 

"  '  Whew !  Hullabaloo !  Out  of  the  house  with  her 
— the  sly,  conniving  hussy ! '  shouted  ould  Bob,  whin 
he  read  the  letter.  *  Into  the  road  with  all  we've 
given  her!  Pull  the  roof  off  Costello's  house  and 
dhrive  off  the  place  his  whole  brood  of  outraygeous 
villians ! ' 

"  So  they  packed  Norah's  boxes — faix,  an'  many 
a  fine  dhress  was  in  them,  too — and  bade  her  begone. 
The  Misthress  slipped  a  bag  of  goold  sovereigns  with 
a  letther  into  one  of  the  chests.  Norah  took  the  let- 
ther,  but  she  forbade  them  sending  so  much  as  a 
handkerchief  afther  her. 

"  She  wouldn't  even  ride  in  the  coach  that  the  Mis- 
thress had  waiting  for  her  outside  the  grand  gate; 
and  all  alone,  in  her  brown  poplin  dhress,  she  marched 
down  the  gravel  path,  proud,  like  a  queen  going  to  be 
[126] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

crowned.  Nor  did  she  turn  her  head  when  the  ser- 
vants called  blessings  af  ther  her ;  but  oh,  asthore,  her 
face  was  marble  white;  and  whin  she  was  on  her  way 
down  the  lonely  high-road  how  she  cried ! 

"  'Twas  a  bitther  time  entirely,  the  night  young 
Roger  came  home,  and,  hearing  of  all  this,  rushed 
up  the  stairs  to  face  his  father.  What  happened  be- 
twixt them  there  no  one  knows,  only  they  never 
passed  aich  other  a  friendly  look  nor  gave  one  to 
the  other  a  pleasant  word  from  that  good  hour  to 
this. 

"  To  make  matthers  worse,  that  same  night  young 
Roger  wint  and  axed  Norah  Costello  to  marry  him. 
But  all  the  counthry-side  knows  how  the  girl  ray  fused 
him,  saying  she  wouldn't  beggar  and  rune  the  man 
she  loved. 

"  Well,  he  took  her  at  her  word,  but  disbelieved 
and  mocked  at  the  raysons  she  gave — the  omad- 
haun! 

"  He  wasn't  much  good  afther  that,  only  for  gal- 
loping his  horse  over  the  counthry  like  a  madman, 
so  I  said  to  meself ,  says  I,  that  we  might  as  well  take 
him  with  us  into  the  Sleive-na-mon.  I  gave  the 
ordhers,  and  there  he  is." 

[  127  ] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

"  Oh,  the  poor  lad ! "  says  Maureen ;  "  does  ould 
Bob  suspect  the  boy  is  with  the  fairies  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  laste,"  says  the  King.  "  You  know  how 
it  is  with  us ;  whinever  we  take  a  person  we  lave  one 
of  our  own  in  his  place,  who  looks  and  acts  and  talks 
in  a  way  that  the  presner's  own  mother  can't  tell  the 
differ.  By-and-by  the  fairy  sickens  and  purtends 
to  die,  and  has  his  wake  and  his  burial.  When  the 
funeral's  over  he  comes  back  to  us  hale  and  spiling 
for  more  sport.  So  the  lad  the  O'Briens  put  into 
their  tomb  was  one  of  our  own — Phadrig  Oge  be 
name. 

"  Many  a  time  Phadrig  has  taken  the  place  of  the 
genthry  and  quality  in  every  county  of  Ireland,  and 
has  been  buried  more  than  a  hundhred  times,  but  he 
swears  he  never  before  had  a  dacinter  funeral  nor  a 
rattliner  wake." 

"  And  the  girl !  "  cried  Maureen — "  Norah,  where 
is  she?" 

"  Faith,  that's  strange,  too,"  says  the  King.  "  She 
was  the  first  person  ould  Bob  axed  for  afther  the 
funeral.  He  begged  her  to  come  back  to  them  and 
forgive  him,  and  the  poor  girl  went  agin  to  live  at 
the  big  house." 

[128] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

"  He'll  get  her  another  good  husband  yet,"  said 
Darby. 

"  Oh,  never ! "  says  Maureen,  crying  like  a  child. 
"  She'll  die  of  a  broken  heart." 

"  I've  seen  in  me  time,"  says  the  King,  "  people 
die  from  being  pushed  off  houses,  from  falling  in 
wells,  and  every  manner  of  death  you  can  mention, 
and  I  saw  one  ould  woman  die  from  ating  too  much 
treacle,"  he  says,  "  but  never  a  person  die  from  a 
broken  heart." 

This  he  said  to  make  light  of  what  he  had  been 
telling,  because  he  saw  by  Maureen's  face  that  she 
was  growing  sick  with  pity.  For  Maureen  was  think- 
ing of  the  black  days  when  she  herself  was  a  presner 
in  Sleive-na-mon. 

For  an  answer  to  the  jest,  the  girl,  with  her  clasped 
hands  held  up  to  the  King,  moaned,  "  Oh,  King, 
King,  lave  the  poor  lad  go !  lave  him  go.  Take  the 
black  spell  off  him  and  send  him  home.  I  beg  you 
lave  him  go !  " 

"  Don't  bother  him,"  says  Darby ;  "  what  right 
have  we  to  interfere  with  the  Good  People  ?  "  Though 
at  the  same  time  he  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth  and 
looked  kind  of  wistful  at  the  little  man. 
[129] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

But  Maureen's  tears  only  fell  faster  and  faster. 

"  I  can't  do  what  you  ask,  avick,"  says  the  King, 
very  kindly.  "  That  day  I  let  you  and  Darby  go 
from  us  the  power  to  free  anyone  was  taken  away 
from  me  by  my  people.  Now  every  fairy  in 
Sleive-na-mon  must  give  his  consent  before  the 
spell  can  be  taken  away  entirely  from  anyone; 
and,  well,  you  know  they'll  never  consent  to  that," 
he  says. 

"  But  what  I  can  do,  I  will  do.  I  can  lift  the  spell 
from  the  omadhaun  for  one  hour,  and  that  hour  must 
be  just  before  cock-crow." 

"  Is  that  the  law  now  ?  "  asked  Darby,  curiously. 
Maureen  was  sobbing,  so  she  couldn't*  spake. 

"  It  is,"  says  the  Master  of  the  Good  People. 
"  And  to-night  I'll  sind  our  spy,  Sheelah  Maguire, 
to  Norah  Costello  with  the  message  that  if  Norah  has 
love  enough  and  courage  enough  in  her  heart  to  stand 
alone  at  her  thrue  lover's  grave  in  Kilmartin  church- 
yard, to-morrow  night  an  hour  before  cock-crow, 
she'll  see  him  plain  and  talk  with  him.  And  let  you 
two  be  there,"  he  says,  "  to  know  that  I  keep  me 
word." 

At  that  he  vanished  and  they  saw  him  no  more 
[130] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CO:;  NOES 

that  night,  nor  until  two  hours  afther  the  next  mid- 
night, whin  as  they  were  tying  the  ould  horse  and 
cart  to  the  fence  outside  Kilmartin  church,  thin  they 
heard  him  singing.  He  was  sitting  on  the  wall,  chant- 
ing at  the  top  of  his  woice  a  sthrange,  wild  song,  and 
houlding  in  his  hand  a  silver-covered  noggin.  On  a 
fallen  tombstone  near  by  lay  a  white  cloth,  glimmer- 
ing in  the  moonlight,  and  on  the  cloth  was  spread  as 
fine  a  supper  as  heart  could  wish. 

So  beside  the  white  rows  of  silent  tombs,  under  the 
elm-trees  and  willows,  they  ate  their  fill,  and  Darby 
would  have  ate  more  if  close  to  them  they  hadn't  heard 
a  long,  deep  sigh,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  tall  man, 
gliding  like  a  shadow  into  the  shadows  that  hung 
around  the  O'Briens'  family  vault. 

At  the  same  time,  standing  on  the  top  of  the  stile 
which  led  into  the  graveyard,  a  woman's  form  was 
seen  wavering  in  the  moonlight. 

They  watched  her  coming  down  the  walk  betwixt 
the  tombs,  her  hand  on  her  breast,  clutching  tight 
the  cloak.  Now  and  thin  she'd  stand,  looking  about 
the  while,  and  shivering  in  mortal  terror  at  the  cry 
of  the  owls,  and  thin  she'd  flit  on  and  be  lost  in  the 
shadows;  and  thin  they'd  see  her  run  out  into  the 
[131] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

moonlight,  where  she'd  wait  agin,  gathering  courage. 
At  last  she  came  to  a  strip  of  soft  light  before  the 
tomb  she  knew.  Her  strength  failed  her  there,  and 
she  went  down  on  her  knees. 

Out  of  the  darkness  before  her  a  low,  pleading 
woice  called,  "  Norah !  Norah !  Don't  be  frightened, 
acushla  machree ! " 

Slowly,  slowly,  with  its  arm  spread,  the  dim  shape 
of  a  man  glided  out  of  the  shadows.  At  the  same 
instant  the  girl  rose  and  gave  one  cry,  as  she  flung 
herself  on  his  breast.  They  could  see  him  bending 
over  her,  thin,  pouring  words  like  rain  into  her  ears, 
but  what  he  said  they  couldn't  hear — Darby  thinks 
he  whuspered. 

"  I  wondher,  oh,  I  wondher  what  he's  telling  her 
in  this  last  hour !  "  says  Maureen. 

"  It's  aisy  to  know  that,"  says  Darby ;  "  what 
should  he  be  telling  her  but  where  the  crocks  of  goold 
are  hid." 

"  Don't  be  watching  them,  it  ain't  dacint,"  says  the 
King;  "  uncultayvation  or  unpoliteness  is  ojus;  come 
over  here;  I've  a  pack  of  cayrds,  Darby,"  says  he, 
"  and  as  we  have  nearly  an  hour  to  wait,  I  challenge 
you  to  a  game  of  forty-five." 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BEIAN    CONNORS 

"  Sure  we  may  as  well,"  says  Darby.  "  What  can't 
be  cured  must  be  endured." 

With  that,  me  two  bould  hayroes  sat  asthride  the 
fallen  stone,  and  hammering  the  rock  hard  with  their 
knuckles,  played  the  game.  Maureen  went  and, 
houlding  on  to  the  ivy,  knelt  at  the  church  wall — it's 
praying  an'  cryin',  too,  I  think  she  was.  Small  blame 
to  her  if  she  was.  All  through  that  hour  she  imagined 
the  wild  promisings  of  the  two  poor  crachures  over 
be  the  tomb,  and  this  kept  burning  the  heart  out  of 
her. 

Just  as  the  first  glow  of  gray  broke  behind  the 
hills  the  King  stood  up  and  said :  "  It's  your  game, 
Darby,  more  be  good  luck  than  be  good  shooting; 
'tis  time  to  lave.  You  know  if  I'm  caught  out  afther 
cock-crow  I  lose  all  me  spells  for  the  day,  and  be- 
sides I'm  wisible  to  any  mortal  eye.  I'm  helpless 
as  a  baby  then.  So  I  think  I'll  take  the  omadhaun 
and  go.  The  roosthers  may  crow  now  any  minute," 
says  he. 

The  omadhaun,  although  he  couldn't  hear,  he  felt 
the  charm  dhrawing  him.  He  trew  a  frightened  look 
at  the  east  and  held  the  girl  closer.  'Twas  their  last 
minute. 

[  133  ] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

"  King !  King !  "  says  Maureen,  running  up,  "  if 
I  brought  Sullivan's  goat  into  Sleive-na-mon,  would 
ye  swear  to  let  me  out  safe  agin?  " 

"  Troth,  I  would  indade,  I  swear  be  Child  Nick ! " 
('Tis  be  him  the  Good  People  swear.)  "  I'll  do  that 
same." 

"  Then  let  the  omadhaun  go  home.  Get  the  Good 
People's  consent  and  I'll  bring  you  the  goat,"  says 
Maureen, 

The  King  thrembled  all  over  with  anxiety  and  ex- 
citement. "  Why  didn't  you  spake  sooner?  I'm 
afeard  I  haven't  time  to  go  to  Sleive-na-mon  and  back 
before  cock-crow,"  he  stutthered,  "  and  at  cock-crow, 
if  the  lad  was  undher  the  say  or  in  the  stars,  that 
spell'd  bring  him  to  us,  and  then  he  could  never  agin 
come  out  till  the  Day  of  Judgment.  Howsumever, 
I'll  go  and  thry,"  he  says,  houlding  tight  on  to  his 
crown  with  both  hands ;  and  with  thim  words  he  van- 
ished. 

Be  this  and  be  that,  it  wasn't  two  minutes  till  he 
was  back  and  wid  not  a  second  to  spare,  ayther. 

"  Phadrig  Oge  wants  Mrs.  Nancy  Clancy's  nanny- 
goat,  too.  Will  ye  bring  the  both  of  them,  Maureen?  " 
he  screamed. 

[134] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

"  You're  dhriving  a  hard  bargain,  King,"  cried 
Darby.  "  Don't  promise  him,  Maureen." 

"  I  will !  "  cried  she. 

"  Then  it's  a  bargain ! "  the  fairy  shouted,  jump- 
ing to  the  top  of  a  headstone.  "  We  all  consent," 
he  says,  waving  the  noggin. 

He  yelled  to  the  omadhaun.  "  Go  home,  Roger 
O'Brien!  Go  back  to  your  father's  house  and  live 
your  life  out  to  its  natural  ind.  The  curse  is  lifted 
from  you,  the  black  spell  is  spint  and  gone.  Pick 
up  the  girl,  ye  spalpeen;  don't  ye  see  she's  faint- 
ed? " 

When  O'Brien  looked  up  and  saw  the  Master  of  the 
Fairies  he  staggered  like  a  man  that  had  been  sthruck 
a  powerful  blow.  Thin  he  caught  up  the  girl  in  his 
arms  and  ran  with  her  down  the  gravelled  path  and 
over  the  stile. 

At  that  minute  the  sorest  misfortune  that  can  hap- 
pen to  one  of  the  Good  People  came  to  pass.  As  the 
lad  left  the  churchyard  every  cock  in  the  parish 
crowed,  and,  tare  and  'ounds!  there  on  a  tombstone, 
caught  by  the  cock-crow,  stood  the  poor,  frightened 
little  King!  His  goold  crown  was  far  back  on  his 
head,  and  his  green  cloak  was  twisted  behind  his  back. 
[135] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNOES 

All  the  power  for  spells  and  charms  was  gone  from 
him  until  the  next  sunset. 

"  I'm  runed  entirely,  Darby !  "  he  says.  "  Trow 
your  shawl  about  me,  Maureen  alannah,  and  carry  me 
in  your  arms,  purtending  I'm  an  infant.  What'll 
I  do  at  all  at  all?  "  says  he,  weakly. 

Taking  him  at  his  word,  Maureen  wrapped  the 
King  in  her  shawl,  and  carrying  him  in  her  arms  to 
the  cart,  laid  him  in  the  sthraw  at  the  bottom,  where 
he  curled  up,  still  and  frightened,  till  they  were  on 
their  way  home. 


[136] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  COUPLE  WITHOUT  CHILDHEE 

Five  miles  down  the  road  from  Kilmartin  church- 
yard, and  thin  two  miles  across,  lived  Barney  Casey 
with  Judy,  his  wife — known  far  and  wide  as  the 
Couple  without  Childher. 

Some  foolish  people  whuspered  that  this  lack  of 
family  was  a  punishment  for  an  ould  saycret  crime. 
But  that  saying  was  nonsense,  for  an  honester  couple 
the  sun  didn't  shine  on.  It  was  only  a  pinance  sint 
from  Heaven  as  any  other  pinance  is  sint ;  'twas — like 
poverty,  sickness,  or  as  being  born  a  Connaught  man 
— just  to  keep  them  humble-hearted. 

But,  oh,  it  was  the  sore  pinanee ! 

Many  an  envious  look  they  gave  their  neighbour, 
Tom  Mulligan,  the  one-legged  ballad-maker,  who 
lived  half  a  mile  up  the  road,  for,  twelve  purty,  red- 
haired  innocents  sported  and  fought  before  Tom's 
door.  The  couple  took  to  going  through  the  fields 
to  avoid  passing  the  house,  for  the  sight  of  the  chil- 
dher  gave  them  the  heartache. 
[137] 


ADVENTUEES  OF  KING  B  E  I  A  N  CONNORS 

Bj-and-by  the  two  began  conniving  how  on-be- 
knownst  they  might  buy  a  child,  or  beg  or  even  steal 
one — they  were  that  lonesome-hearted. 

Howsumever,  the  plan  at  last  they  settled  on  was 
for  Judy  to  slip  away  to  a  far  part — Mayo,  I  think 
— where  she  would  go  through  the  alms-houses  till 
she  found  a  gossoon  that  suited  her.  And  they  had 
the  cute  plan  laid  by  which  it  was  to  pass  before  the 
neighbours  as  their  own — a  Casey  of  the  Caseys. 
"  Lave  it  to  me,  Barney  darling,"  said  Judy,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  "  and  if  the  neighbours  wondher 
where  I  am,  tell  them  I've  gone  to  spind  a  few  months 
with  my  ould  mother,"  says  she. 

Well,  Judy  stole  off  sly  enough,  and  'twas  well  intil 
the  cowld  weather  when  Barney  got  word  that  she  had 
found  a  parfect  angel,  that  it  was  the  picture  of  him- 
self, and  that  she  would  be  home  in  a  few  days. 

With  a  mind  like  thistle-down  he  ran  to  Father 
Scanlan  to  arrange  for  the  christening.  On  his  way 
to  the  priest's  house  he  inwited  the  first  woman  he 
met,  Ann  Mulligan,  the  ballad-maker's  wife,  to  be 
godmother;  he  picked  bashful  Ted  Murphy,  the 
bachelor,  to  be  godfather;  and  on  his  way  home  he 
was  that  excited  and  elayted  that  he  also  inwited  big 
[138] 


ADVENTTTBES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

Mrs.  Brophy,  the  proud  woman,  to  be  the  boy's  god- 
mother, forgetting  altogether  there  was  sich  a  parson 
in  the  world  as  Ann  Mulligan.  The  next  day  the 
neighbours  made  ready  a  great  bonfire  to  celebrayte 
the  dispositious  occasion. 

But  ochone!  Midnight  before  the  day  of  the 
christening  poor  Judy  came  home  with  empty  arms 
and  a  breaking  heart.  The  little  lad  had  died  sud- 
denly and  was  buried.  Maybe  the  Good  People  had 
taken  him — 'twas  hard  to  tell  which. 

Tare  and  ages,  there  was  the  throuble!  For  two 
hours  the  couple  sat  in  their  desolate  kitchen  hould- 
ing  hands  and  crying  and  bawling  together  till  Bar- 
ney could  stand  it  no  longer.  Snatching  his  caubeen, 
he  fled  from  the  coming  disgrace  and  eggsposure  out 
into  the  fields,  where  he  wandhered  aimless  till  after 
dawn,  stamping  his  feet  at  times  and  wagging  his 
head,  or  shaking  his  fist  at  the  stars. 

At  that  same  unlucky  hour  who  should  be  joulting 
in  their  cart  along  the  high-road,  two  miles  across, 
on  their  way  home  from  Kilmartin  churchyard,  but 
our  three  hayroes,  Maureen,  the  King,  and  Darby 
O'Gill! 

Their  ould  white  horse  bobbed  up  and  down 
[139] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

through  the  sticky  morning  fog,  Darby  and  Mau- 
reen shivering  on  the  front  sate.  The  Ruler  of  the 
Fairies,  Maureen's  shawl  folded  about  him,  was  lying 
cuddled  below  in  the  sthraw.  When  they  saw  any- 
one coming,  the  fairy-chief  would  climb  into  Mau- 
reen's lap,  and  she'd  hould  him  as  though  he  were  a 
baby. 

Small  blame  to  him  to  be  sour  and  sullen ! 

"  Here  I  am,"  he  says  to  himself,  "  his  Majesty, 
Brian  Connors,  King  of  all  the  Good  People  in  Ire- 
land, the  Master  of  the  Night  Time,  and  having  been 
King  for  more  than  five  thousand  years,  with  more 
power  after  sunset  than  the  Emperor  of  Greeze  or 
the  Grand  Turkey  of  barbayrious  parts — here  am  I," 
he  says,  "  disguised  as  a  baby,  wrapped  in  a  woman's 
shawl,  and  depending  for  my  safety  on  two  simple 
counthry  people — "  Then  he  groaned  aloud,  "  Bad 
luck  to  the  day  I  first  saw  the  omadhaun !  " 

Those  were  the  first  words  he  spoke.  But  it  wasn't 
in  the  little  man  to  stay  long  ill-natured.  At  the  first 
shebeen  house  that  they  found  open  Maureen  bought 
for  him  a  bottle  of  spirits,  and  this  cheered  him 
greatly.  The  first  dhrink  warmed  him,  the  second 
softened  him,  the  third  put  a  chune  to  the  ind  of  his 
[140] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

tongue,  and  by  the  time  they  raiched  Tom  Grogan's 
public-house,  which  was  straight  two  miles  across 
from  Barney  Casey's,  the  liquor  set  him  singing  like 
a  nightingale. 

Maureen  and  Darby  slipped  into  Grogan's  for  a 
bit  of  warmth  and  a  mouthful  to  ate,  laving  the  Mas- 
ter of  Sleive-na-mon  well  wrapped  up  at  the  bottom 
of  the  cart — his  head  on  a  sack  of  oats  and  his  feet 
against  the  cart-side — and  as  I  said,  him  singing. 

He  had  the  finest,  liftenest  way  for  a  ballad  you 
ever  heard!  At  the  end  of  every  verse  he  eleywated 
the  last  word  and  hildt  it  high,  and  put  a  lonesome 
wobble  into  his  woice  that  would  make  you  cry. 

Peggy  Collins,  the  tall,  thieving  ould  beggar- 
woman  who  used  to  wear  the  dirty  red  cloak,  an' 
looked  like  a  sojer  in  it,  was  sleeping  inside  the 
hedge  as  the  cart  came  along;  but  when  it  stopped 
she  peeped  out  to  see  who  had  the  good  song  with 
him. 

When  she  saw  it  was  an  infant  not  much  longer 
than  your  two  hands,  "  God  presarve  us  and  save 
us !  "  she  gasped,  and  began  to  say  her  prayers.  The 
King  went  on  singing,  clear  and  doleful  and  beau- 
tiful, the  ballad  of  Donnelly  and  Cooper. 
[141] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

"  Come  att  ye  thrue-bom  Irishmen  wherever  you  may  be, 
1  hope  you'll  pay  attintion  and  listen  unto  me-e-e, 
And  if  you'll  pay  attintion  the  truth  I  will  declare 
How  Donnelly  fought  Cooper  on  the  Curraah  of  Kildare" 

Prayers  were  never  from  Peggy's  heart,  so  as  she 
listened  to  the  enthrancing  song  she  turned  from 
praying  to  plotting. 

"  If  I  had  that  child,"  she  says,  "  I  could  go  from 
fair  to  fair  and  from  pathron  to  pathron,  and  his 
singing'd  fill  my  apron  with  silver." 

The  King  turned  to  another  ditty,  and  you'd  think 
he  was  a  thrush. 

"  They'll  kiss  you,  they'll  car-r-ress  you,"  he  sang. 
"  They'll  spind  your  money  free, 
But  of  all  the  towns  in  Ire-eland  Kilkenny  for  me-e-e-e." 

The  gray-haired  ould  rascal,  Peggy,  by  this  was 
creeping  ever  and  ever  till  she  raiched  the  cart.  Up 
then  she  popped,  and  the  first  thing  me  poor  Captain 
knew  the  shawl  was  slapped  fast  on  his  face,  and  two 
long,  thin  arms  were  dragging  him  out  over  the 
wheel.  He  thried  to  cry  out,  but  the  shawl  choked 
him,  and  scrambling  and  kicking  did  him  no  good. 

Over  the  nearest  stile  bounced  Peggy,  and  into  the 
nearest  field  she  flew,  her  petticoat  lifted,  her  white 
[142] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

hair  streaming,  and  her  red  cloak  fluttering  behind. 
She  crunched  the  chief  man  of  the  fairies  undher  her 
left  elbow,  his  head  hanging  behind,  with  as  little 
riverence  as  if,  saving  your  presence,  he  were  a  sthray 
gander. 

Well,  your  honour,  Peggy  ran  till  there  wasn't 
a  breath  in  her  before  she  slowed  down  to  a  walk,  and 
then  she  flung  the  King  over  her  right  chowldher,  his 
face  on  her  back  in  that  way  some  careless  women 
carry  childher.  This  set  his  head  free. 

When  he  saw  who  it  was  had  stolen  him,  oh,  but 
he  was  vexed;  for  all  that  he  didn't  say  a  word  as 
they  went,  but  lay  there  on  her  collar-bone,  bobbing 
up  and  down,  blinking  his  eyes,  and  thinking  what 
he  should  do  to  her.  At  last  he  quietly  raiched  over 
with  his  teeth  and  took  a  bite  at  the  back  of  her  neck 
that  she  felt  to  "her  toes.  Wow !  Your  honour  should 
have  heard  the  screech  Peggy  let  out  of  her! 

Well,  as  she  gave  that  screech  she  gave  a  jerk  at 
the  King's  legs,  pulling  him  down.  As  he  flopped 
intil  her  arms  he  took  a  wisp  of  her  hair  with  him. 
For  a  second's  time  the  spiteful  little  eyes  in  the  ould 
weazened  face,  looking  up  at  her  own  from  undher 
the  goold  crown,  froze  her  stiff  with  terror,  and  then, 
[143] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BBIAN    CONNORS 

giving  a  yell  that  was  ten  times  louder  than  the  first 
screech,  she  flung  his  Majesty  from  her  down  upon 
the  hard  ground.  Leaping  a  ditch,  she  went  gallop- 
ing wildly  across  the  meadow.  The  King  fell  flat  on 
his  back  with  an  unraysonable  joult. 

That  wasn't  the  worst  of  his  bad  luck.  If  Peggy 
had  dhropped  him  at  any  other  place  in  the  field  he 
might  have  crawled  off  into  the  ditch  and  hid  till  sun- 
set, but  oh,  asthore,  there  not  ten  rods  away,  with 
eyes  bulging  and  mouth  gaping,  stood  Barney  Casey, 
the  Man  without  Childher! 

Barney  looked  from  the  little  bundle  on  the  ground 
to  Peggy  as  she  went  skimming,  like  a  big  red  bird, 
over  the  low-lying  morning  fog.  Through  his  sur- 
prise a  foine  hope  slowly  dawned  for  him. 

He  said :  "  Good  fortune  folly  you,  and  my  bless- 
ing rest  on  you  wherever  you  go,  Peggy  Bawn,  for 
the  throuble  you've  lifted  this  day;  you've  given  me 
a  Moses  in  the  bull  rushers  or  a  Pharyoah's  daughter, 
but  I  disremember  which,  God  forgive  me  for  forget- 
ting my  rayligion ! " 

He  stood  for  a  minute  slyly  looking  to  the  north, 
and  the  south  and  the  ayst  and  the  west.  But  what 
he  saw,  when  he  turned  to  look  again  for  the  baby, 
[144] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

Would  have  made  any  other  man  than  one  in  Barney 
Casey's  mind  say  his  prayers  and  go  on  his  way. 

The  baby  was  gone,  but  in  its  place  was  a  little 
ould  man  with  a  goold  crown  on  his  head,  a  silver- 
covered  noggin  in  his  hand,  and  the  most  vexed  ex- 
pression in  the  world  on  his  face,  and  he  thrailing  a 
shawl  and  throtting  toward  the  ditch. 

'Twas  a  hard  fall  for  the  Man  without  Childher, 
and  hard  he  took  it. 

When  Barney  was  done  with  bad  langwidge,  he 
says :  "  A  second  ago,  me  ould  lad,  you  were,  or  you 
purtended  to  be,  an  innocent  child.  Well,  then,  you'll 
turn  back  again  every  hair  and  every  look  of  you; 
you'll  be  a  smiling,  harmless,  purty  baby  agin,  or  I'll 
know  the  rayson  why,"  he  says,  gritting  his  teeth. 

With  that  he  crept  over  and  scooped  up  the  King. 
There  was  the  struggling  and  wiggling! 

"  Lave  me  down !  Lave  me  down !  You  murthering 
spalpeen !  "  shouted  the  King,  kicking  vicious  at  Bar- 
ney's chist.  "  I'm  Brian  Connors,  the  King  of  the 
Good  People,  and  I'll  make  you  sup  sorrow  in  tay- 
cups  for  this !  "  cries  he. 

Well,  Casey,  his  lips  shut  tight  and  his  eyes  grim 
and  cowld,  hildt  in  his  two  hands,  out  at  arm's-length, 
[145] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

the  little  man,  who  was  kicking  furious.  For  a  min- 
ute Barney  studied  him. 

"  I  believe  in  my  sowl,"  says  the  Man  without  Chil- 
dher,  mighty  rayproachf ul,  "  you're  only  a  fairy ! 
But  if  that's  what  you  are,  you  must  have  charms 
and  spells.  Now, turn  yourself  into  a  purty,  harm- 
less infant  this  minute — have  red  hair,  like  the  Mul- 
ligan childher  at  that — or  I'll  break  every  bone  in 
your  body ! " 

There  was  blazing  anger  in  the  King's  eye  and 
withering  scorn  in  his  woice. 

"  Ignorant  man,"  he  cried,  "  don't  you  know  that 
betwixt  cock-crow  in  the  morning  and  sunset  the  Good 
People  can  work  no  spell  or  charm.  If  you  don't 
lave  me  down  I'll  have  a  mark  on  you  and  on  all  your 
relaytions  the  world'll  wondher  at !  " 

But  the  divil  a  bit  frightened  was  Casey. 

He  started  in  to  help  the  charm  along  as  one  would 
thry  to  make  a  watch  go.  He  shook  the  King  slowly 
from  side  to  side,  thin  joggled  him  softly  up  and 
down,  mutthering  earnestly  betwixt  his  teeth,  "  Go 
on,  now,  you  little  haythen,  change  this  minute,  you 
scorpion  of  the  world ;  come,  come,  twisht  yourself ! " 

What  the  little  King  was  saying  all  this  time  you 
[146] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

must  guess  at,  for  I'm  not  bitther-tongued  enough  to 
repayt  it. 

Seeing  that  not  a  hair  changed  for  all  his  work, 
Barney  wrapped  Maureen's  shawl  about  the  King  and 
started  for  home,  saying :  "  Hould  your  whist !  It's 
a  child  I  must  have  to  be  baptised  this  day.  It'll  be 
hard  to  manage,  but  I  have  a  plan !  You  came  as  a 
child,  and  you'll  be  thrated  as  such — and  look,  if  you 
don't  quit  kicking  me  in  the  stomach,  I'll  strangle 
you!" 

As  you  know,  to  say  pious  words  to  one  of  the 
Good  People  is  worse  than  cutting  him  with  a  knife, 
to  show  him  pious  pictures  is  like  burning  him,  but 
to  baptise  a  fairy  is  the  most  turrible  punishment  in 
the  whole  worruld. 

As  they  went  along,  the  King  argyed,  besought  and 
threatened,  but  he  talked  to  stone. 

At  last,  although  he  had  but  the  strength  of  a  six- 
year-old  child,  the  Captain  of  the  Good  People 
showed  what  high  spirit  was  in  him. 

"  Set  me  down,  you  thief,"  he  says.    "  I  challenge 
you !    If  you  have  a  dhrop  of  your  mother's  blood  in 
you,  set  me  ferninst  you  with  sticks  in  our  hands,  so 
we  can  fight  it  out  like  men !  " 
[147] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

"  No,  it's  not  needful,"  sa ys  Barney,  cool  as  ice ; 
"  but  in  a  few  minutes  I'll  shave  every  hair  from 
your  head,  and  afther  that  make  a  fine  Christian  out 
of  you.  It's  glad  and  thankful  for  it  you  ought  to 
be,  you  wicious,  ugly  little  pagan  scoundhrel !  " 

Well,  the  King  let  a  roar  out  of  him :  "  You 
bandy-legged  villain !  "  he  cried — and  then  whirled 
in  to  abuse  the  Man  without  Childher.  He  insulted 
him  in  English,  he  jeered  him  in  Irish,  he  thrajooced 
him  in  Latin  and  Roosian,  but  the  most  awful  crash 
of  blaggarding  that  was  known  in  Ireland  since  the 
world  began  was  when  the  King  used  the  Chi- 
nayse. 

Casey  looked  wonder  and  admiraytion,  but  made 
no  answer  till  the  little  man  was  out  of  breath,  when 
he  spoke  up  like  a  judge. 

"  Well,  if  there's  any  crather  within  the  earth's 
four  corners  that  needs  baptising  it's  you,  little  man. 
But  I'll  not  thrajooce  you  any  more,  for  you're  me 
own  little  Romulus  or  Raymus,"  he  says,  scratching 
his  head.  Then  of  a  sudden  he  broke  out  excitedly, 
"  Now  may  four  kinds  of  bad  luck  fall  on  your  proud 
head  this  day,  Mrs.  Brophy,  and  four  times  heavier 
ones  on  you,  Ann  Mulligan,  and  may  the  curse  of 
[148] 


ADVENTUKES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNOES 

Cromwell  light  on  you  now  and  for  ever,  Ted  Mur- 
phy, the  bachelor,  for  pushing  yerselves  here  at  this 
early  hour  in  the  morning !  " 

For  the  sight  that  met  his  eyes  knocked  every  plan 
out  of  his  head. 

Long  before  the  time  she  was  expected,  sailing 
down  the  road  to  his  own  house,  happy  and  slow,  came 
Ann  Mulligan,  carrying  in  her  arms  her  two-weeks- 
old  baby,  Patsy  Mulligan.  With  motion  like  a  two- 
masted  schooner,  tacking  in  her  pride  from  side  to 
side,  up  the  road  came  big  Mrs.  Brophy,  the  proud 
woman,  carrying  her  little  Cornaylius;  behind  Mrs. 
Brophy  marched  bashful  Ted  Murphy,  the  bachelor, 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  his  head  bent  like  a  captive, 
but  stepping  high.  Not  with  the  sheep-stealing  air 
men  are  used  to  wear  at  christenings  and  weddings 
did  Ted  Murphy  hop  along,  but  with  the  look  on  his 
face  of  a  man  who  had  just  been  thried,  convicted, 
sentenced,  and  who  expects  in  few  minutes  to  be  hung 
for  sheep-stealing. 

They  were  come  an  hour  before  the  time  to  bring 
the  child  to  the  church. 

Beside  the  door  stood  Judy,  straining  her  eyes  to 
know  what  Barney  had  hiding  in  the  bundle,  and  with 
[149] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BEIAN    CONNORS 

an  awful  fear  in  her  heart  that  he  had  robbed  some 
near  neighbour's  cradle. 

Well,  Barney  at  once  broke  into  a  run  so  as  to  get 
inside  the  house  with  the  King,  and  to  close  the  door 
before  the  others  got  there,  but  as  luck  would  have 
it,  the  whole  party  met  upon  the  threshold  and 
crowded  in  with  him. 

"  Oh,  the  little  darling ;  give  us  a  sight  of  the  poor 
crachure,"  says  Mrs.  Mulligan,  laying  Patsy  on  the 
bed. 

"  He's  mine  first,  if  you  plaze,"  says  Mrs.  Brophy, 
the  proud  woman. 

"  He's  sick,"  says  Barney — "  too  sick  to  be  un- 
covered." 

"  Is  he  too  sick  to  go  to  church?  "  broke  in  Ted 
Murphy,  eagerly,  hoping  to  get  rid  of  his  job. 

"  He  is,"  says  Barney,  catching  at  a  chance  for 
delay. 

"  Then,"  says  Ted,  with  joy  in  his  woice,  "  I'll 
run  and  bring  Father  Scanlan  to  the  house.  I'll  be 
back  with  him  in  tunty  minutes,"  says  he. 

Before  anyone  could  stop  the  gawk,  he  was  flying 
down  the  road  to  the  village.  Casey  felt  his  bundle 
shiver. 

[150] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BEIAN    CONNORS 

"  I'll  have  your  life's  blood  for  this ! "  the  King 
whuspered,  as  Barney  laid  him  on  the  bed  betwixt 
the  two  childher. 

"  Come  out !  come  out !  "  cries  Casey,  spreading  his 
arms  and  pushing  the  three  women  over  the  threshold 
before  they  knew  it. 

Then  he  stood  outside,  holding  the  door  shut 
against  the  three  women,  thrying  to  think  of  a  plan, 
and  listening  to  more  blisthering  talk  than  he  ever 
heard  on  any  day  before  that  day,  for  the  three 
women  talked  at  the  same  time,  aich  striving  to  be 
more  disagreeable  than  the  other.  What  dhrove  him 
crazy  was  that  his  own  wife,  Judy,  was  the  worst. 
They  threatened  him,  they  wheedled,  and  they 
stormed.  The  priest  might  ride  up  at  any  minute. 
The  sweat  rained  from  Barney's  forehead. 

Once  in  desperaytion  he  opened  the  door  to  let  the 
women  pass,  but  shut  it  quick  agin  whin  he  saw  the 
King  standin'  up  on  the  bed  and  him  changing  his 
own  clothes  for  those  of  little  Patsy  Mulligan. 

Well,  the  women  coaxed  till  Mrs.  Mulligan  lost 
all  patience  and  went  and  sat  sullen  on  the  bench.  At 
that  Mrs.  Brophy  suddenly  caught  Barney  around 
the  waist,  and  whirling  him  aside,  she  and  Judy 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

rushed  in.  Barney,  with  the  fierceness  of  a  tiger, 
swung  shut  the  door  to  keep  Mrs.  Mulligan  at  bay. 

The  other  women  inside  were  hopping  with  joy. 
Dhressed  in  Maureen's  shawl,  but  divil  a  thing  else, 
lay  on  the  outside  edge  of  the  bed  poor  little  Patsy 
Mulligan.  The  King,  almost  smothered,  dhressed  in 
Patsy's  clothes,  was  scrooged  in  to  the  wall  with  a 
cloth  about  his  head  wrapped  round  and  round. 

"  Oh,  the  little  jewel,"  says  Mrs.  Brophy,  picking 
up  little  Patsy  Mulligan,  and  setting  herself  on  the 
bed ;  "  he's  the  dead  cut  of  his  father." 

In  that  quare  way  women  have  Judy  already  had 
half  a  feeling  that  the  child  by  some  kind  of  magic 
was  her  own.  So  she  spoke  up  sharp  and  said  that 
the  child  was  the  image  of  her  brother  Mike. 

While  they  were  disputing,  Mrs.  Brophy  turned 
her  head  and  saw  the  legs  of  the  King  below  the  edge 
of  little  Patsy's  dhress — the  dhress  that  he'd  stole  an* 
put  on. 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  Mrs.  Casey !  "  says  she,  lay- 
ing her  hand  on  Judy's  chowlder,  "  did  you  ever  be- 
fore see  feet  on  a  child  of  two  weeks  old  like  them 
on  Patsy  Mulligan?  " 

Well,   at    this   they   laughed    and   titthered   and 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BEIAN    CONNOES 

doubled  backward  and  forward  on  the  bed,  sniggering 
at  the  King  and  saying  funny  things  about  him,  till, 
mad  with  the  shame  of  the  women  looking  at  his  bare 
knees,  and  stung  be  the  provoking  things  they  said, 
he  did  a  very  foolish  thing ; — he  took  a  pin  from  his 
clothes  and  gave  Mrs.  Brophy  so  cruel  a  prod  that, 
big  as  she  was,  and  proud  as  she  was,  it  lifted  her 
in  three  leaps  across  the  floor.  "  Whoop  !  whoop !  " 
she  says,  as  she  was  going.  Now,  though  heavy  and 
haughty,  Mrs.  Brophy  was  purty  nimble  on  her  feet, 
for,  red  and  indignant,  she  whirled  in  a  twinkling. 
"  Judy  Casey,"  says  she,  glowering  and  squaring  off, 
"  if  that's  your  ideeah  of  a  good,  funny  joke,  I'll 
taiche  you  a  betther ! "  she  says. 

When  Barney,  outside  listening  with  his  heart  in 
his  mouth,  heard  the  angry  woices  within,  a  great 
wakeness  came  into  his  chist,  for  he  thought  every- 
thing was  over.  Mrs.  Mulligan  pushed  past  him — 
he  lost  the  power  to  prevent  her — and  he  follyed  her 
into  the  house  with  quaking  knees.  There  was  the 
uproar ! 

While  the  three  was  persuading  the  furious  Mrs. 
Brophy  that  it  must  have  been  a  pin  in  the  bed- 
clothes, Ted  Murphy,  breathless,  flung  open  the  door. 
[153] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

"  Father  Scanlan  wants  to  know,"  he  cried,  "  what 
ails  the  baby  that  you  can't  bring  it  to  church,"  he 
says. 

All  turned  questioning  eyes  to  Barney,  till  his 
mind  flutthered  like  a  wounded  parthridge.  Only  two 
disayses  could  the  unfortunate  man  on  the  suddint 
raymember. 

"  It's  half  maysles  and  a  thrifle  of  scarlet  faver," 
he  says.  He  couldn't  aisily  have  said  anything 
worse.  Seeing  a  turrible  look  on  Mrs.  Mulligan's 
face,  he  says  agin,  "  But  I  don't  think  it's  ketching, 
ma'am." 

The  fright  was  on.  With  a  great  cry,  Mrs.  Brophy 
dived  for  and  picked  up  little  Cornaylius  and  rushed 
with  him  out  of  the  door  and  down  the  road;  Mrs. 
Mulligan,  thinking  she  had  little  Patsy,  bekase  of 
the  clothes,  snatched  up  the  King — his  head  still 
rowled  in  the  cloth — and  darted  up  the  road.  She 
was  clucking  curses  like  an  angry  hen  as  she  went, 
and  hugging  the  King  and  coddling  him,  and  cry- 
ing over  him  and  saying  foolish  baby  langwidge,  till 
he  was  so  disgusted  that  he  daytermined  to  give  her 
a  shock. 

"  Oh,  me  poor  little  darling ! "  she  sobbed,  press- 
[154] 


ADVENTUEES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

ing  the  King's  head  to  her  bosom — "  oh,  Patsy,  me 
jewel,  have  they  kilt  you  entirely?  " 

At  that  the  King  spoke  up  in  a  clear,  cowld  woice. 

Misdoubting  her  ears,  Mrs.  Mulligan  stopped  and 
bent  her  head,  listening  to  her  baby. 

"  Don't  worry  for  me,  ma'am,  thank  you  kindly," 
says  the  baby,  polite  and  sthrong.  "  Don't  throuble 
yourself  about  the  general  state  of  my  robustness,"  it 
says,  "  it's  thraymendous,"  says  the  child — "  in  fact, 
I  never  was  betther." 

As  cautiously  as  if  she  was  unwrapping  a  rowl  of 
butther  Mrs.  Mulligan  began  to  unwind  the  cloth 
from  about  the  King's  head. 

When  this  was  done  she  flung  up  her  face  an' 
yelled,  "  Ow !  ow !  ow !  "  and  then  came  right  up  from 
the  ground  the  second  hard  joult  the  King  got  that 
day. 

As  he  lay  on  his  back  fastening  his  strange  clothes 
and  thinking  what  he  would  do  next,  he  could  hear 
Mrs.  Mulligan  going  down  the  road.  She  was  mak- 
ing a  noise  something  like  a  steam  whustle. 

"  Be-gorr,"  says  the  King,  sitting  up  and  feeling 
of  his  back,  "  to-day,  with  the  women,  I'm  playing 
the  divil  entirely !  " 

[155] 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  LUCK  OF  THE   MULLIGANS 

The  wee  King  of  the  Fairies  sat  in  the  dust  of  the 
road  where  Ann  Mulligan  had  dhropped  him.  There 
were  dents  in  his  goold  crown,  and  the  baby's  dhress 
he  still  wore  was  soiled  and  tore. 

Ow!  Ow!  Ow!  What  a  terrible  joult  agin  the 
ground  Ann  Mulligan  gave  him  when  she  took  the 
covering  from  his  head  and  found  his  own  face  gaz- 
ing up  at  her  instead  of  her  baby  Patsy's.  He  turned 
to  shake  his  fist  up  the  road,  and  twishted  once  more 
to  shake  his  fist  down  the  road. 

"  Be  the  bones  of  Pether  White,"  he  says,  "  what 
me  and  me  subjects'll  do  to-night  to  this  parish'll 
make  the  big  wind  seem  like  a  cock's  breath ! " 

"  But,"  he  says,  again,  "  how'll  I  hide  meself  till 
dark?  Wirra!  Wirra!  if  it  were  only  sunset — the 
sun  has  melted  every  power  and  charm  and  spell  out 
of  me — the  power  has  left  my  four  bones.  I  can  be 
seen  and  molested  by  any  spalpeen  that  comes  along ; 
what'll  I  do  at  all  at  all !  I  think  I  had  best  be  get- 
[156] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

ting  through  the  fields  back  to  Barney  Casey's.  It's 
little  welcome  they  have  for  me  there,  but  they  must 
keep  me  saycret  now  for  their  own  sakes." 

With  that  he  got  upon  his  legs,  and  houldin'  up 
his  white  dhress,  climbed  through  the  stile  into  Casey's 
field. 

The  first  thing  he  saw  there  was  a  thin  but  jolly- 
minded  looking  pig,  pushing  up  roots  with  her  nose 
and  tossing  them  into  the  air  through  sheer  divilment. 

Dark-eyed  Susan  was  she  called,  and  she  belonged 
to  Tom  Mulligan,  the  one-legged  ballad-maker,  who 
had  named  her  after  the  famous  ballad. 

Mulligan  was  too  tindher-hearted  to  sell  her  to  be 
kilt,  and  too  poor  to  keep  her  in  victuals,  so  she 
roamed  the  fields,  a  shameless  marauder  and  a  nimble- 
footed  freebooter. 

"  Be-gorr,  here's  luck ! "  said  the  little  King ; 
"  since  'tis  in  Casey's  field,  this  must  be  Casey's  baste. 
I  couldn't  ask  betther;  whinever  a  pig  is  frightened 
it  runs  to  its  own  house;  so  I'll  just  get  on  her  back 
and  ride  down  to  Casey's  cabin." 

The  King  looked  inquirin'  at  Susan,  and  Susan 
looked  impident  suspicion  at  the  King. 

"  Oh,  ho,  ye  beauty,  you  know  what's  in  me  mind !  " 
[157] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

says  he,  whistlin'  and  coaxin'  and  sidlin'  up  to  her. 
A  pig  likes  a  compliment  if  it's  well  tould,  so  Susan 
hung  her  head,  grunted  coquettish,  and  looked  away. 
Taking  adwantage  of  her  head  being  turned,  without 
another  word,  his  Rile  Highness  ran  over,  laid  hould 
of  her  ear,  and  with  one  graceful  jump  took  an  aisy 
saddle-sate  on  her  back. 

This  was  the  last  thing  the  pig  expected,  so  with 
one  frightened  squeal  from  Susan  both  of  them  were 
off  like  the  wind  through  the  fields  toward  Mulligan's 
house,  taking  stones,  ridges,  and  ditches  like  hurdle 
jumpers  till  they  came  in  sight  of  a  mud-plasthered 
cabin  which  stood  on  the  hillside.  A  second  afther 
the  King's  hair  stood  straight  up  and  his  heart  grew 
cowld,  for  there,  sitting  on  the  thrashold,  with  her 
family  in  a  little  crowd  about  her,  was  the  woman  who, 
misconsthruing  him  for  her  own  child,  had  fled  with 
him  from  Barney  Casey's,  and,  finding  her  mistake, 
had  trun  him  into  the  high-road. 

About  the  ballad-maker's  door  was  gathered  his 
whole  family,  listening  to  the  wondherful  tale  being 
tould  by  Ann  Mulligan.  A  frightened  woman  she 
was. 

Indade,  whin  Ann  Mulligan,  afther  dhropping  the 
[158] 


A  D  AfirN.T  URES    OF    KING    BEIAN    CONNOES 

King  in  the  road,  raiched  home  she  fell  unconscionable 
in  the  door  before  her  husband  and  her  frightened 
childher,  an'  she  never  come  to  till  little  Pether  sprin- 
kled a  noggin  of  wather  on  her ;  thin  she  opened  her 
eyes  and  began  telling  how  Ould  Nick  had  stole  the 
baby  and  had  taken  little  Patsy's  place  in  her  own 
two  arms. 

There  she  sat  wringing  her  hands  and  waving  back 
and  forth.  The  fairy-man  could  aisily  guess  the 
story  she  was  telling,  and  his  flying  steed  was  hurry- 
ing straight  toward  the  house  and  nothing  could  stop 
it.  They'd  both  be  there  in  tin  seconds. 

"  Well,  this  time,  anyhow,  I'll  be  kilt  intirely,"  says 
the  King. 

Mrs.  Mulligan  turned  to  pint  down  the  road  to 
the  place  where  she  had  dhropped  the  King,  when, 
lo  and  behold,  up  the  boreen  and  through  the  field 
they  saw,  coming  at  a  thraymendous  pace,  Dark- 
eyed  Susan  and  the  King,  riding  her  like  a  dhra- 
goon. 

Mrs.  Mulligan  gave  one  screech  and,  lifting  her 
petticoats,  flew;  the  childher  scurried  off  afther  her 
like  young  rabbits. 

Tom,  not  being  able  to  run  bekase  of  his  wooden 
[159] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

leg,  stood  his  ground,  but  at  the  same  time  raymem- 
bering  more  prayers  an'  raypentin'  of  more  mane 
things  he'd  done  than  ever  before  since  he  was 
born. 

He  was  sure  it  was  Ould  Nick  himself  that  was  in  it. 

And  now  a  new  danger  jumped  suddenly  before 
the  King.  The  pig  headed  for  her  favourite  hole 
through  the  hedge,  and  whin  the  King  saw  the  size 
of  the  hole  he  let  a  howl  out  of  him,  for  he  knew  he'd 
be  trun.  He  scrooched  close  to  the  baste's  back  and 
dhrew  up  his  legs.  Sure  enough  he  was  slithered  off 
her  back  and  left  sitting  on  the  hard  ground,  half  the 
clothes  torn  from  his  rile  back. 

That  howl  finished  Tom  entirely,  so  that  whin  his 
Majesty  crawled  through  the  hole  afther  the  pig  and 
came  over  to  him,  the  ballad-maker  wouldn't  have 
given  tuppence  for  his  sowl's  salvation.  Howsumever, 
he  put  on  the  best  and  friendliest  face  he  could  un- 
dher  the  sarcumstances.  Scraping  with  his  wooden 
leg  and  pulling  at  a  tuft  of  carroty  hair  on  his  fore- 
head, Tom  said,  mighty  wheedling: 

"  The  top  o'  the  day  to  your  Honour.  Sure,  how's 
Mrs.  Balzebub  and  the  childher.  I  hear  it's  a  fine, 
bright  family  your  Lordship  has.  Arrah,  it  isn't  the 
[160] 


ADVENTURES    OP    KING    BEIAN    CONNORS 

likes  of  me,  poor  Tom  Mulligan,  the  ballad-maker, 
that   your   riverence'd   be  wanting." 

Hearing  them  words,  the  King  looked  mighty 
plazed.  "  If  you're  Tom  Mulligan,  the  ballad- 
maker,"  he  says,  coming  over  smiling,  "  it's  proud 
and  happy  I  am  to  meet  you !  I'm  no  less  than  Brian 
Connors,  the  King  of  the  Good  People,"  he  says, 
dhrawing  himself  up  and  trying  to  look  grand. 
"  It's  many's  the  fine  ballad  of  yours  we  sing  in  Sleive- 
na-mon." 

"  But  little  Patsy,"  stammered  Tom ;  "  sure  your 
Ma j  esty  wouldn't  take  him  from  us ;  he's  our  twelfth 
and  rounds  out  the  dozen,  you  know." 

"  Have  no  fear,"  says  the  fairy ;  "  Patsy'll  be  here 
safe  and  sound  at  nightfall.  If  you  stand  friend  to 
me  this  day  the  divil  a  friend  you'll  ever  need  agin 
as  long  as  you  live ! "  With  that  the  King  up  and 
tould  him  all  the  day's  happenin's  and  misfortunes. 
Tom  could  hardly  belave  his  eyes  or  his  ears.  He 
was  so  happy  he  begun  in  his  mind  making  a  ballad 
about  himself  and  the  King  that  minute. 

"  Ow !  "  says  the  King,  bending  his  back  and  hould- 
ing  his  head,  "  whin  I  think  of  the  ondacencies  I  wint 
true  this  day !  " 

[161] 


ADVENTUEES  OF  KING  B  B  I  A  N  CONNORS 

"  Your  Majesty'll  go  through  no  more,"  says  Tom. 
With  that  he  went  stumping  away  to  call  back  the 
wife  and  childher. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  ruler  of  the  night-time  was 
sitting  on  Mulligan's  table  ating  the  last  petatie  and 
dhrinking  the  last  sup  of  new  milk  that  was  in  the 
house.  The  King  dhrained  the  cup  an'  smacked  his 
lips.  "  Now  sing  us  a  ballad,  Tom  Mulligan,  my 
lad,"  says  he,  leaning  back  against  the  empty  milk- 
crock  and  crossing  his  legs  like  a  tailor.  Ann  Mulli- 
gan nodded  approvin'  from  where  she  sat,  proud  and 
contented  on  the  bed,  the  childher  smiled  up  from  the 
mud  floor.  So  Tom,  who  was  a  most  maylodious  man, 
just  as  his  wife  was  a  most  harmonious  woman,  up 
and  sang  the  ballad  of  Hugh  Reynolds: 

"  Me  name  is  Hugh  Reynolds,  I  came  of  dacint  parents; 
I  was  born  in  County  Cavin,  as  you  may  plainly  see. 
Be  lovin*  of  a  maid  named  Catherine  McCabe, 

My  love  has  been  bethrayed,  she's  a  sore  logs  to  me." 

There's  most  of  the  time  thirty-two  varses  to  that 
song,  and  Tom  sang  them  all  without  skippin'  a  word. 

"  Bate  that,  King  Brian  Connors,"  he  says  at  last. 
"  I  challenge  you !  " 

[162] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

Then  King  Brian  trew  back  his  head  and,  shutting 
his  eyes,  sung  another  ballad  of  forty-seven  varses, 
which  was  Catherine  McCabe's  answer  to  Hugh  Reyn- 
olds, and  which  begins  this  away: 

"  Come  all  ye  purty  fair  maids  wherever  you  may  be, 
And  if  you  II  pay  attention  and  listen  unto  me, 
PR  tell  of  a  desayver  that  you  may  beware  of  the  same, 
He  comes  from  the  town  of  Drumscullen  in  the  County  Cavan, 
an"  Hugh  Reynolds  is  his  name." 

One  song  brought  out  another  finer  than  the  first, 
until  the  whole  family,  childher  and  all,  jined  in  sing- 
ing "  Willie  Reilly  and  His  Dear  Colleen  Bawn." 

'Twould  make  your  heart  young  agin  to  hear  them. 
At  the  ind  of  aich  varse  all  the  Mulligans'd  stop  quick 
to  let  the  King  wobble  his  woice  alone.  Dark-eyed 
Susan  was  standing  scratching  herself  inside  the 
closed  door,  plazed  but  wondherin';  so,  with  sweet 
songs  and  ould  tales,  the  hours  flew  like  minutes  till  at 
last  the  ballad-maker  pushed  back  the  table  and 
tuned  his  fiddle,  while  the  whole  family — at  laste  all 
of  them  ould  enough  to  stand — smiling,  faced  one 
another  for  a  dance. 

The  King  chose  Mrs.  Ann  Mulligan  for  a  partner. 
[163] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

The  fiddle  struck  a  note,  the  bare,  nimble  feet  raised. 
"  Rocky  Roads  to  Dublin  "  was  the  tune. 

"  Deedle,  deedle,  dee  ;  deedle,  deedle,  diddle  urn. 
Deedle,  deedle,  dee,  rocky  roads  to  Dubalin" 

The  twinkling  feet  fell  together.  Smiles  and  laugh- 
ter and  jostling  and  jollity  broke  like  a  summer  storm 
through  the  room.  And  singing  and  pattherin'  and 
jiggering,  rose  and  swirled  to  the  mad  music,  till 
suddenly — "  knock,  knock,  knock !  " — the  blows  of  a 
whip-handle  fell  upon  the  door  and  every  leg  stopped 
stiff. 

"  Murther  in  Irish,"  whispered  little  Mickey  Mulli- 
gan, "  'tis  Father  Scanlan  himself  that's  in  it ! " 

Ochone  mavrone !  what  a  change  from  merry-mak- 
ing and  happiness  to  fright  and  scandalation  was 
there!  The  Master  of  the  Fairies,  sure  that  Father 
Scanlan  had  the  scent  of  him,  tried  to  climb  up  on  to 
the  settle-bed,  but  was  too  wake  from  fear,  so  Mrs. 
Mulligan  histed  him  and  piled  three  childher  on  top 
of  the  King  to  hide  him  just  as  Father  Scanlan  pushed 
open  the  door. 

The  priest  stood  outside,  houlding  his  horse  with 
one  hand  and  pintin'  his  whip  with  the  other. 
[164] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

"  What  are  you  hiding  on  that  bed,  you  vaga- 
bone?  "  he  says. 

"  Whist !  "  says  Tom  Mulligan,  hobblin'  over  and 
going  outside,  with  the  fiddle  undher  his  arrum,  "  'tis 
little  Patsy,  the  baby,  and  he  ain't  dressed  dacint 
enough  for  your  riverence  to  see,"  whuspered  the 
villain. 

"  Tom  Mulligan,"  says  the  priest,  shaking  his 
whip,  "  you're  an  idle,  shiftless,  thriftless  man,  and 
a  cryin'  shame  and  a  disgrace  to  my  flock ;  if  you  had 
two  legs  I'd  bate  you  within  an  inch  of  your  life ! " 
he  says,  lookin'  stern  at  the  fiddler. 

"  Faith,  and  it's  sorry  I  am  now  for  my  other  leg," 
says  Tom,  "  for  it's  well  I  know  that  whin  your  riv- 
erence scolds  and  berates  a  man  you  only  give  him 
half  a  shilling  or  so,  but  if  you  bate  him  as  well,  your 
riverence  sometimes  empties  your  pockets  to  him." 

'Twas  hard  for  the  priest  to  keep  an  ill-natured 
face,  so  he  smiled;  but  as  he  did,  without  knowing 
it,  he  let  fly  a  shot  that  brought  terror  to  the  heart 
of  the  ballad-maker. 

"  God  help  me  with  you  and  the  likes  of  you,"  says 
the  priest,  thrying  to  look  savare ;  "  you  keep  me 
from  morning  till  night  robbing  Pether  to  pay  Paul. 
[165] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

Barney  Casey,  the  honest  man,  gives  me  a  crown  for 
baptising  his  child,  and  tin  minutes  afther  I  must 
give  that  same  money  to  a  blaggard !  " 

Well,  whin  Mulligan  heard  that  his  own  little 
Patsy  had  been  baptised  agin  at  the  instigation  of 
that  owdacious  imposthure,  Barney  Casey,  the  bal- 
lad-maker's neck  swelled  with  rage.  But  worse  was 
to  come.  Gulping  a  great  lump  down  his  throat  he 
axed: 

"  What  name  did  your  riverence  give  the  baby  ?  " 

There  was  a  thremble  in  the  poor  man's  woice. 

"  Bonyface,"  says  the  priest,  his  toe  in  the  stirrup. 
"  To-day  is  the  feast  of  St.  Bonyface,  a  gr-r-reat 
bishop.  He  was  a  German  man,"  says  Father  Scan- 
Ian. 

The  groan  Tom  Mulligan  let  out  of  him  was  heart- 
rendering.  "  Bonyface !  Oh,  my  poor  little  Patsy ; 
bad  scran  to  you,  Barney  Casey!  My  own  child 
turned  into  a  German  man — oh,  Bonyface !  " 

The  priest  was  too  busy  mounting  his  horse  to  hear 
what  the  ballad-maker  said,  but  just  before  starting 
the  good  man  turned  in  his  saddle. 

"  I  came  near  forgetting  my  errant,"  he  says. 
"  There's  a  little  ould  man — dwarves  they  call  the 
[166] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

likes  of  thim — who  has  been  lost  from  some  thrav- 
elling  show  or  carawan,  or  was  stole  by  ould  Peggy 
Collins  this  morning  from  some  place — I  don't  rightly 
know  which.  Sind  the  childher  looking  for  him  and 
use  him  kind.  I'm  going  up  the  road  spreading  the 
news.  Ignorant  people  might  misthrate  him,"  says 
his  riverence,  moving  off. 

"  You'll  find  no  ignorant  person  up  this  road," 
called  Tom,  in  a  broken  woice,  "  but  Felix  O'Shaugh- 
nessy,  and  he's  not  so  bad,  only  he  don't  belave  in 
ghosts,"  cried  Mulligan. 

Even  as  the  ballad-maker  turned  to  go  in  the  door 
the  sun,  shooting  one  red,  angry  look  at  the  world, 
dhropped  below  the  western  mountains.  The  King 
jumped  from  the  bed. 

"  The  charms  have  come  back  to  me.  I  feel  in  my 
four  bones  the  power,  for  'tis  sunset.  I'm  a  greater 
man  now  than  any  king  on  his  trone,"  says  he.  "  Do 
you  sind  word  to  Barney  and  Judy  Casey  that  if  they 
don't  bring  little  Patsy  and  my  green  velvet  cloak 
and  the  silver-topped  noggin  and  stand  ferninst  me 
on  this  floor  within  half  an  hour,  I'll  have  the  both 
of  thim  presners  in  Sleive-na-mon  before  midnight, 
to  walk  on  all-fours  the  rest  of  their  lives.  As  for 
[167] 


ADVENTUKES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

you,  mj  rayspected  people,"  he  says,  "  a  pleasanter 
afthernoon  I  seldom  spint,  and  be  ready  to  get  your 
reward." 

With  thim  words  he  vanished.  Their  surprise  at 
his  disappearance  was  no  sooner  over  than  the  Mul- 
ligans began  hunting  vessels  in  which  to  put  the  goold 
the  fairy  was  going  to  give  them. 

Ann  Mulligan  was  dragging  in  from  outside  an 
empty  tub  when  shamefaced  Judy  Casey  passed  in, 
carrying  little  Patsy  Mulligan.  Behind  her  slunk 
Barney,  her  husband,  houlding  the  green  cloak  and 
the  silver-topped  noggin. 

"  I  had  him  for  one  day,  Ann  Mulligan,"  says 
Judy,  handing  little  Patsy  to  his  mother,  "  and 
though  it  breaks  my  poor,  withered  heart  to  give  him 
up,  he's  yours  by  right,  and  here  he  is." 

Whilst  she  was  speaking  those  words  the  ruler 
of  the  fairies  sprung  over  the  threshold  and  laid  a 
white  bundle  on  the  table.  The  household  crowded 
up  close  around. 

Without  a  word  the  fairy  dhrew  the  cover  from 
the  white  bundle,  an'  there,  like  a  sweet,  pink  rose, 
lay  sleepin'  on  its  white  pillow  the  purtiest  baby  you 
ever  set  your  two  livin'  eyes  on. 
[168] 


ADVEN TUBES    OF    KING    BEIAN    CONNOBS 

Judy  gave  a  great  gasp,  for  it  was  the  identical 
child  the  fairies  stole  from  her  down  in  the  County 
Mayo. 

"  You  don't  desarve  much  from  me,"  says  the 
King,  "  but  because  Ann  Mulligan — fine  woman — 
asked  it,  I'll  do  you  a  favour.  You  may  take  back 
the  baby  or  I'll  give  you  a  hundhred  pounds.  Take 
your  choice,  Barney  Casey." 

Barney  stood  a  long  time  with  bowed  head,  looking 
at  the  child  and  thinking  hard.  You  can  surely  see 
what  a  saryous  question  he  had.  One's  own  child  is 
worth  more  than  a  hundred  pounds,  but  other  people's 
childhren  are  plenty  and  full  of  failings.  Mulligan's 
family  peered  up  into  his  face,  and  his  wife  Judy 
sarched  him  with  hungry  eyes.  At  last  he  said,  very 
slow: 

"  My  mind  has  changed,"  says  he.  "  Though  peo- 
plt  always  tould  me  that  childher  were  a  throuble,  a 
worry  and  a  care,  yesterday  I'd  give  the  County  Clare 
for  that  little  one.  After  this  day's  work  I  know  that 
sayin's  thrue,  so  I'll  take  the  hundhred  pounds,"  he 
says. 

"  Divil  a  fear  of  you  takin'  the  hundhred  pounds !  " 
snapped  his  wife,  Judy,  grabbing  up  the  child.  An* 
[169] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNOBS 

thin  the  two  women,  turning  on  him,  fell  to  abusin' 
and  ballyraggin'  the  Man  without  Childher,  till  sorra 
bit  of  courage  was  left  in  his  heart. 

"  I  promised  you  yer  choice,  and  they'll  lave  you 
no  choice,"  says  the  King,  looking  vexed.  "  Well, 
here's  the  hundhred  pounds,  and  let  Judy  keep  the 
child." 

Whin  the  fairy  turned  to  the  ballad-maker  the 
hearts  of  all  the  Mulligans  stopped  still. 

"  Now,  my  grand  fellow,  me  one-legged  jaynious," 
he  says,  "  you're  goin'  to  be  disappinted.  You  think 
I'll  give  you  riches,  but  I  won't."  At  that  Tom's  jaw 
dhropped  to  his  chist,  and  the  littlest  Mulligans  be- 
gan to  cry. 

"  I'll  not  make  you  rich  bekase  you're  a  born  bal- 
lad-maker, and  a  weaver  of  fine  tales,  and  a  jaynious 
— if  you  make  a  jaynious  rich  you  take  all  the  songs 
out  of  him  and  you  spile  him.  A  man's  heart-sthrings 
must  be  often  stretched  almost  to  the  breaking  to  get 
good  music  from  him/  I'll  not  spile  you,  Tom  Mul- 
ligan. 

"  Besides,"  he  says,  "  as  you  are  a  natural-born 
ballad-maker,  you'd  kill  yourself  the  first  year  thryin* 
to  spind  all  your  money  at  wanst.  But  I'll  do  betther 
[170] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

for  you  than  to  make  you  rich.  Ann  Mulligan,  do 
you  clear  the  table  an'  put  my  silver-topped  noggin 
on  the  edge  of  it,"  says  he. 

When  Ann  Mulligan  did  as  she  was  bid  the  King 
put  the  green  cloak  on  his  chowlders  and,  raising  his 
hand,  pointed  to  the  silver-covered  noggin.  Everyone 
grew  still  and  frightened. 

"  Noggin,  noggin,  where's  your  manners  ? "  he 
says,  very  solemn. 

At  the  last  word  the  silver  lid  flew  open,  and  out 
of  the  cup  hopped  two  little  men  dhressed  all  in  black, 
dhragging  something  afther  them  that  began  to  grow 
and  grow  amazing.  So  quickly  did  they  work,  and 
so  swiftly  did  this  thing  they  brought  twirl  and 
change  and  turn  into  different  articles  that  the  peo- 
ple hadn't  time  to  mark  what  form  it  was  at  first,  only 
they  saw  grow  before  their  astonished  eyes  taycups 
and  dishes  and  great  bowls,  an'  things  like  that. 

In  a  minute  the  table  was  laid  with  a  white  cloth 
like  the  quality  have,  and  chiny  dishes  and  knives  and 
forks. 

"  Noggin,  noggin,  where's  your  manners  ?  "  says 
the  King  again.  The  little  men  dhragged  from  the 
noggin  other  things  that  grew  into  a  roast  of  mutton 
[171] 


ADVENTURES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

and  biled  turnips,  and  white  bread  an'  butther,  and 
petaties,  and  pots  of  tay. 

"  Noggin,  noggin,  where's  your  manners  ?  "  says 
the  King,  for  the  last  time. 

At  that  the  little  black  men,  afther  puttin'  a  silver 
shillin'  beside  every  plate  at  the  table,  jumped  into 
the  noggin  an'  pulled  down  its  lid. 

Whin  the  ating  and  drinking  and  jollity  were  at 
their  hoight  the  King  arose,  drew  tight  his  crown  on 
his  head,  and  pointing  once  more  to  the  silver-covered 
noggin,  said: 

"  This  is  my  gift  to  you  and  your  reward,  Tom 
Mulligan,  maker  of  ballads  and  journeyman  worker 
in  fine  tales.  'Tis  more  than  your  wish  was.  Nayther 
you  nor  anyone  who  sits  at  your  table,  through  all 
your  life,  will  ever  want  a  bite  to  ate  or  a  sup  to 
dhrink,  nor  yet  a  silver  shilling  to  cheer  him  on  his 
way.  Good  luck  to  all  here  and  good-bye !  "  Even 
as  they  looked  at  the  King  he  was  gone,  vanished  like 
a  light  that's  blown  out — and  they  never  saw  him 
more. 

But  the  news  spread.  Musicianers,  poets,  and 
story-tellers,  and  jayniouses  flocked  to  the  ballad- 
maker's  cabin  from  all  over  Ireland.  Any  fine  dajij 
[172] 


ADVENTUKES    OF    KING    BRIAN    CONNORS 

in  the  year  one  might  see  them  gather  in  a  dozen 
knots  before  his  door  and  into  as  many  little  crowds 
about  the  stable.  In  each  crowd,  from  morning  till 
night,  there  was  a  chune  being  played,  a  ballad  sung, 
or  a  story  being  tould.  Always  one  could  find  there 
blacksmiths,  schoolmasters,  and  tinkers,  and  all  trades, 
but  the  greater  number  be  far,  av  coorse,  were  beg- 
garmen. 

Nor  is  that  same  to  be  wondhered  at,  bekase  every 
jaynious,  if  he  had  his  own  way  and  could  folly  his 
own  heart's  desire'd  start  to-morrow  at  daybreak  with 
the  beggarman's  staff  and  bag. 

But  wherever  they  came  from,  and  whatever  their 
station,  Tom  Mulligan  stumped  on  his  wooden  leg 
from  crowd  to  crowd,  the  jovial,  happy  master  of 
them  all. 


[173] 


THE  BANSHEE'S  COMB 


THE  BANSHEE'S  COMB 


CHAPTER    I 

THE    DIPLOMACY   OF    BRIDGET 
I 

'TWAS  the  mendin*  of  clothes  that  All  Sowls'  af- 
thernoon  in  Elizabeth  Ann  Egan's  kitchen  that  nat- 
urally brought  up  the  subject  of  husbands  an'  the  best 
ways  to  manage  them.  An'  if  there's  one  thing  more 
than  another  that  makes  me  take  me  hat  off  to  the 
women,  'tis  the  owdacious  way  the  most  down-throd- 
den  of  their  sex  will  brag  about  her  blaggard  hus- 
band. 

Not  that  ayther  one  or  the  other  of  the  f oive  busy- 
tongued  and  busy-fingered  neighbour  women  who 
bint  above  their  sewing  or  knitting  that  afthernoon 
were  down-throdden ;  be  no  manner  of  manes ;  far,  far 
from  it.  They  were  so  filled  with  matrimonial  con- 
[177] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

tintedness  that  they  fairly  thrampled  down  one  an- 
other to  be  first  in  praising  the  wondherful  men  of 
their  choice.  Every  woman  proudly  claimed  to  own 
an'  conthrol  the  handsomest,  loikeliest  man  that  ever 
throd  in  brogues. 

They  talked  so  fast  an'  they  talked  so  loud  that 
'twas  a  thryin'  long  while  before  meek-woiced  little 
Margit  Doyle  could  squeege  her  husband,  Dan'l  John, 
sideways  into  the  argyment.  An'  even  when  she  did 
get  him  to  the  fore,  the  other  women  had  appropry- 
ated  all  the  hayroic  qualifications  for  their  own  men, 
so  that  there  was  nothing  left  for  Dan'l  but  the  com- 
mon lavings;  an'  that  dayprivation  nettled  Margit 
an'  vexed  her  sore.  But  she  took  her  chanst  when 
it  came,  poor  as  it  was,  an'  boulted  in. 

Jabbing  the  air  as  though  her  needle  were  a  dag- 
ger, she  broke  into  the  discoorse. 

"  I  wouldn't  thrade  my  Dan  for  the  King  of 
Rooshia  or  the  Imperor  of  Chiney,"  says  she,  peering 
dayfiant  around  the  room.  No  one  sided  with  that 
ray  mark,  an'  no  one  argyed  agin  it,  an'  this  vexed  her 
the  more. 

"  The  Kingdom  of  Chiney  is  where  the  most  sup- 
harior  tay  comes  from,"  says  Caycelia  Crow.  She 
[178] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

was  a  large,  solemn  woman,  was  Misthress  Crow,  an 
a  gr-r-reat  histhorian. 

"  No,"  says  Margit,  scorning  the  intherruption, 
"  not  if  the  two  men  were  rowled  into  one,"  says  she. 

"  Why,"  says  Caycelia  Crow,  an'  her  deep  woice 
tolled  like  a  passing  bell — "  why,"  says  she,  "  should 
any  dacint  woman  be  wantin'  to  marry  one  of  thim 
haythen  Imperors?  Sure  they're  all  ambiguious,"  she 
says,  looking  around  proud  of  the  grand  worrud. 

Elizabeth  Ann  sthopped  the  spinning-wheel  the 
betther  to  listen,  while  the  others  turned  bothered 
faces  to  the  histhorian. 

"  Ambiguious,"  says  Misthress  Crow,  raisin'  her 
woice  in  the  middle  part  of  the  worrud ;  "  ambigu- 
ious," she  says  again,  "  manes  that  accordin'  to  the 
laygal  laws  of  some  furrin  parts,  a  man  may  marry 
four  or  five  wives  if  he  has  a  mind  to." 

At  this  Margit  bristled  up  like  a  bantam-hin. 

"  Do  you  mane  to  say,  Caycelia  Crow,"  says  she, 
dhroppin'  in  her  lap  the  weskit  she  was  mendin',  "  do 
you  intind  to  substantiate  that  I'm  wishin'  to  marry 
the  Imperor  of  Chiney,  or,"  she  says,  her  woice  grow- 
in'  high  an'  cutting  as  an  east  wind,  "  do  you  wish 
to  inferentiate  that  if  my  Dan'l  had  the  lave  he'd  be 
[179] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

ambiguious?  Will  you  plaze  tell  these  friends  an* 
neighbours,"  she  says,  wavin'  a  hand,  "  which  of  the 
two  of  us  you  was  minded  to  insinuate  against?  " 

The  attackt  was  so  sudden  an'  so  unexpected  that 
Misthress  Crow  was  too  bewildhered  to  dayfind  her- 
self. The  poor  woman  only  sat  starin'  stupid  at 
Margit. 

The  others  sunk  back  in  their  chairs  spacheless 
with  consternaytion  till  Mollie  Scanlan,  wishin'  to  pa- 
cificate  the  sitiwation,  an'  winkin'  friendly  at  Cay- 
celia,  spoke  up  sootherin'. 

"  Thrue  for  ye,  Margit  Doyle,"  says  she.  "  What 
kind  of  talk  is  that  for  ye  to  be  talkin',  Caycelia  ?  " 
says  she.  "  Sure  if  Dan'l  John  were  to  be  med  the 
Imperor  of  Chiney  to-morrow  he'd  hesitate  an'  day- 
liberate  a  long  time  before  bringin'  in  one  of  them 
ambiguious  women  to  you  an'  the  childher.  I'd  like 
to  see  him  thry  it.  It'ud  be  a  sore  an'  a  sorrowful  day 
for  him,  I'm  thinkin'." 

At  thim  worruds,  Margit,  in  her  mind's  eye,  saw 
Dan'l  John  standin'  ferninst  her  with  an  ambiguious 
haythen  woman  on  aich  side  of  him,  an'  the  picture 
riled  the  blood  in  her  heart. 

"  Oh,  ho ! "  says  she,  turning  on  poor,  shrinkin* 
[180] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

Mollie  with  a  smile,  an'  that  same  smile  had  loaded 
guns  an'  pistols  in  it.  "  An'  will  you  plaze  be  so  kind 
an'  condesinden',  Misthress  Scanlan,"  says  she,  "  to 
explain  what  you  ever  saw  or  heerd  tell  of  in  my 
Dan'l  John's  actions,  that'ud  make  you  think  he'd 
contimplate  such  schoundrel  endayvours,"  says  she, 
thrimblin'. 

The  only  answer  to  the  question  was  from  the 
tay-kettle.  It  was  singin'  high  an'  impident  on  the 
hob. 

Now,  Bridget  O'Gill,  knowin'  woman  that  she  was, 
had  wisely  kept  out  of  the  discoorse.  She  sat  apart, 
calmly  knittin'  one  of  Darby's  winther  stockings.  As 
she  listened,  howsumever,  she  couldn't  keep  back  a  sly 
smile  that  lifted  one  corner  of  her  mouth. 

"  Isn't  it  a  poor  an'  a  pittiful  case,"  said  Misthress 
Doyle,  glaring  savage  from  one  to  the  other,  "  that 
a  dacint  man,  the  father  of  noine  childher,  eight  of 
them  livin',  an'  one  gone  for  a  sojer — isn't  it  a  burnin' 
shame,"  she  says,  whumperin',  "  that  such  a  daycint 
man  must  have  his  char-ack-ther  thra juiced  before 
his  own  wife —  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me 
what  you're  laughing  at,  Bridget  O'Gill,  ma'am?  " 
she  blazed. 

[181] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

Bridget,  flutthering  guilty,  thried  to  hide  the  mis- 
fortunate  smile,  but  'twas  too  late. 

"  Bekase,  if  it  is  my  husband  you're  mocking  at," 
says  Margit,  "  let  me  tell  you,  fair  an'  plain,  his  ay- 
quils  don't  live  in  the  County  of  Tipperary,  let  alone 
this  parish!  'Tis  thrue,"  she  says,  tossin'  her  head, 
"  he  hasn't  spint  six  months  with  the  Good  People — 
he  knows  nothin'  of  the  fairies — but  he  has  more  sinse 
than  those  that  have.  At  any  rate,  he  isn't  afeard 
of  ghosts  like  a  knowledgeable  man  that  I  could  min- 
tion." 

That  last  thrust  touched  a  sore  spot  in  the  heart 
of  Bridget.  Although  Darby  O'Gill  would  fight  a 
dozen  livin'  men,  if  needful,  'twas  well  known  he  had 
an  unraysonable  fear  of  ghosts.  So,  Bridget  said 
never  a  worrud,  but  her  brown  eyes  began  to  sparkle, 
an'  her  red  lips  were  dhrawn  up  to  the  size  of  a  but- 
ton. 

Margit  saw  how  hard  she'd  hit,  an'  she  wint  on 
thriumphant. 

"  My  Dan'l  John'ud  sleep  in  a  churchyard.  He's 
done  it,"  says  she,  crowin'. 

Bridget  could  hould  in  no  longer.  "  I'd  be  sore 
an*  sorry,"  she  says,  "  if  a  husband  of  mine  were  druv 
[182] 


THE       BANSHEE     S      COMB 

to  do  such  a  thing  as  that  for  the  sake  of  a  little  pace 
and  quiet,"  says  she,  turnin'  her  chowlder. 

Tare  an'  'ounds,  but  that  was  the  sthroke !  "  The 
Lord  bless  us !  "  mutthered  Mollie  Scanlan.  Margit's 
mind  wint  up  in  the  air  an'  staid  there  whirlin',  whilst 
she  herself  sat  gasping  an'  panting  for  a  rayply. 
'Twas  a  thrilling,  suspenseful  minute. 

The  chiney  shepherd  and  shepherdess  on  the  man- 
tel sthopped  ogling  their  eyes  an'  looked  shocked  at 
aich  other;  at  the  same  time  Bob,  the  linnet,  in  his 
wooden  cage  at  the  door,  quit  his  singin'  an'  cocked 
his  head  the  betther  to  listen ;  the  surprised  tay-kettle 
gave  a  gasp  an'  a  gurgle,  an'  splutthered  over  the 
fire.  In  the  turrible  silence  Elizabeth  Egan  got  up 
to  wet  the  tay.  Settin'  the  taypot  in  the  fender  she 
spoke,  an'  she  spoke  raysentful. 

"  Any  sinsible  man  is  afeard  of  ghosts,"  says  she. 

"  Oh,  indade,"  says  Margit,  ketching  her  breath. 
"  Is  that  so?  Well,  sinsible  or  onsinsible,"  says  she, 
"  this  will  be  Halloween,  an'  there's  not  a  man  in  the 
parish  who  would  walk  past  the  churchyard  up  to 
Cormac  McCarthy's  house,  where  the  Banshee  keened 
last  night,  except  my  Dan'l ! "  says  she,  thrium- 
phant. 

[183] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

The  hurt  pride  in  Bridget  rose  at  that  an'  forced 
from  her  angry  lips  a  foolish  promise. 

"  Huh !  we  hear  ducks  talkin',"  she  says,  coolly 
rowling  up  Darby's  stocking,  an'  sticking  the  needle 
in  the  ball  of  yarn.  "  This  afthernoon  I  was  at  Cor- 
mac  McCarthy's,"  she  says,  "  an'  there  wasn't  a  bit 
of  tay  in  the  house  for  poor  Eileen,  so  I  promised 
Cormac  I'd  send  him  up  a  handful.  Now,  be  the  same 
token,  I  promise  you  my  Darby  will  make  no  bones 
of  going  on  that  errant  this  night." 

"  Ho !  ho !  ho !  "  laughed  Margit.  "  If  he  has  the 
courage  to  do  it  bid  him  sthop  in  to  me  on  his  way 
back,  an'  I'll  send  to  you  a  fine  settin'  of  eggs  from 
my  black  Spanish  hin." 

What  sharp  worrud  Misthress  O'Gill  would  have 
flung  back  in  answer  no  one  knows,  bekase  whin  once 
purvoked  she  has  few  ayquils  for  sarcastic  langwidge, 
but  just  then  Elizabeth  Ann  put  in  Bridget's  hand  a 
steaming  cup  of  good,  sthrong  tay.  Now,  whusky, 
ale,  an'  porther  are  all  good  enough  in  their  places, 
yer  honour — I've  nothing  to  intimidate  aginst  them 
i — but  for  a  comforting,  soothering,  edayfing  buver- 
age  give  me  a  cup  of  foine  black  tay.  So  this  day 
the  cups  were  filled  only  the  second  time,  when  the 
[184] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

subject  of  husbands  was  complately  dhropped,  an'  the 
conwersation  wandhered  to  the  misdajmeanours  of 
Anthony  Sullivan's  goat. 

All  this  time  the  women  had  been  so  busy  with  their 
talkin'  an'  argyfyin'  that  the  creeping  darkness  of 
a  coming  storm  had  stolen  unnoticed  into  the  room, 
making  the  fire  glow  brighter  and  redder  on  the 
hearth.  A  faint  flare  of  lightning,  follyed  be  a  low 
grumble  of  thunder,  brought  the  women  to  their  feet. 

"  Marcy  on  us !  "  says  Caycelia  Crow,  glad  of  an 
excuse  to  be  gone,  "  do  you  hear  that?  We'll  all  be 
dhrownded  before  we  raich  home,"  says  she. 

In  a  minute  the  wisitors,  afther  dhraining  their 
cups,  were  out  in  the  road,  aich  hurryin'  on  her  sepa- 
rate way,  an'  tying  her  bonnet-sthrings  as  she  wint. 

'Twas  a  heavy  an'  a  guilty  heart  that  Bridget  car- 
ried home  with  her  through  the  gathering  storm.  Al- 
though Darby  was  a  nuntimate  friend  of  the  fairies, 
yet,  as  Margit  Doyle  said,  he  had  such  a  black 
dhread  of  all  other  kinds  of  ghosts  that  to  get  him 
out  on  this  threatening  Halloween  night,  to  walk  past 
the  churchyard,  as  he  must  do  on  his  way  to  Cormac 
McCarthy's  cottage,  was  a  job  ayquil  to  liftin'  the 
Shannon  bridge.  How  she  was  to  manage  it  she 
[185] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

couldn't  for  the  life  of  her  tell ;  but  if  the  errant  was 
left  undone  she  would  be  the  laughin'-stock  of  every 
woman  in  the  parish. 

But  worst  of  all,  an'  what  cut  her  heart  the  sorest, 
was  that  she  had  turned  an  act  of  neighbourly  kind- 
ness into  a  wainglorious  boast;  an'  that,  she  doubted 
not,  was  a  mortal  sin. 

She  had  promised  Cormac  in  the  afthernoon  that 
as  soon  as  she  got  home  she  would  send  Darby  over 
with  some  tay  for  poor  little  Eileen,  an'  now  a  big 
storm  was  gathering,  an'  before  she  could  have  sup- 
per ready,  thry  as  hard  as  she  could,  black  night 
might  be  upon  them. 

"  To  bring  aise  to  the  dying  is  the  comf ortingist 
privilege  a  man  or  woman  can  have,  an'  I've  thraded 
it  for  a  miserable  settin'  of  eggs,"  she  says.  "  Amn't 
I  the  unfortunit  crachure,"  she  thought,  "  to  have  let 
me  pride  rune  me  this  away.  What'll  I  do  at  all  at 
all?  "  she  cried.  "  Bad  luck  to  the  thought  that  took 
me  out  of  me  way  to  Elizabeth  Egan's  house ! " 

Then  she  med  a  wish  that  she  might  be  able  to  get 

home  in  time  to  send  Darby  on  his  errant  before  the 

night  came  on.    "  If  they  laugh  at  me,  that'll  be  my 

punishment,  an*  maybe  it'll  clane  my  sin,"  says  she. 

[186] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

But  the  wish  was  in  wain.  For  just  as  she  crossed 
the  stile  to  her  own  field  the  sun  dhropped  behind  the 
hills  as  though  he  had  been  shot,  an'  the  east  wind 
swept  up,  carrying  with  it  a  sky  full  of  black  clouds 
an'  rain. 


II 


That  same  All  Sowls'  night  Darby  O'Gill,  the 
friend  of  the  fairies,  sat,  as  he  had  often  sat  before, 
amidst  the  dancin'  shadows,  f  erninst  his  own  crackling 
turf  and  wood  fire,  listening  to  the  storm  beat  against 
his  cottage  windows.  Little  Mickey,  his  six-year- 
ould,  cuddled  asleep  on  his  daddy's  lap,  whilst  Bridget 
sat  beside  thim,  the  other  childher  cruedled  around 
her.  My,  oh  my,  how  the  rain  powered  and  ham- 
mered an'  swirled ! 

Out  in  the  highway  the  big  dhrops  smashed  agin 
wayfarers'  faces  like  blows  from  a  fist,  and  once  in 
a  while,  over  the  flooded  moors  and  the  far  row  of 
lonesome  hills,  the  sullen  lightning  spurted  red  and 
angry,  like  the  wicious  flare  of  a  wolcano. 

You  may  well  say  'twas  perfect  weather  for  Hal- 
loween— to-night  whin  the  spirits  of  the  dayparted 
[187] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

dead  visit  once  again  their  homes,  and  sit  unseen,  lis- 
tening an'  yearnin'  about  the  ould  hearthstones. 

More  than  once  that  avenin'  Darby'd  shivered  and 
shuddered  at  the  wild  shrieks  and  wails  that  swept 
over  the  chimney-tops;  he  bein'  sartin  sure  that  it 
wasn't  the  wind  at  all,  but  despairing  woices  that 
cried  out  to  him  from  the  could  lips  of  the  dead. 

At  last,  afther  one  purticular  doleful  cry  that  rose 
and  fell  and  lingered  around  the  roof,  the  knowledge- 
able man  raised  his  head  and  fetched  a  deep  breath, 
and  said  to  his  wife  Bridget: 

"  Do  you  hear  that  cry,  avourneen  ?  The  dear  Lord 
be  marcif ul  to  the  souls  of  the  dayparted ! "  sighed 
he. 

Bridget  turned  a  throubled  face  toward  him. 
"  Amen,"  she  says,  speakin'  softly ;  "  and  may  He 
presarve  them  who  are  dying  this  night.  Poor 
Eileen  McCarthy — an'  she  the  purty,  light-footed 
colleen  only  married  the  few  months !  Haven't  we  the 
raysons  to  be  thankul  and  grateful.  We  can  never 
pray  enough,  Darby,"  says  she. 

Now  the  family  had  just  got  off  their  knees  from 
night  prayers,  that  had  lasted  half  an  hour,  so  thim 
last  worruds  worried  Darby  greatly. 
[188] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

"  That  woman,"  he  says  to  himself,  mighty  sour, 
"  is  this  minute  contimplaytin'  an'  insinuatin'  that  we 
haven't  said  prayers  enough  for  Eileen,  when  as  it  is, 
me  two  poor  knees  have  blisters  on  thim  as  big  as  hin's 
eggs  from  kneelin'.  An'  if  I  don't  look  out,"  he  says 
to  himself  again,  "  she'll  put  the  childher  to  bed  and 
then  she's  down  on  her  knees  for  another  hour,  and 
me  wid  her;  I'd  never  advise  anyone  to  marry  such 
a  pious  woman.  I'm  fairly  kilt  with  rayligion,  so  I 
am.  I  must  disthract  her  mind  an'  prevent  her  in- 
tintions,"  he  says  to  himself. 

"  Maybe,  Bridget,"  he  says,  out  loud,  as  he  was 
readying  his  pipe,  "  it  ain't  so  bad  afther  all  for 
Eileen.  If  we  keep  hoping  for  the  best,  we'll  chate  the 
worst  out  of  a  few  good  hours  at  any  rate,"  says  the 
knowledgeable  man. 

But  Bridget  only  rowled  the  apron  about  her 
folded  arms  and  shook  her  head  sorrowful  at  the  fire. 
Darby  squinted  carefully  down  the  stem  of  his  pipe, 
blew  in  it,  took  a  sly  glance  at  his  wife,  and  wint  on : 

"  Don't  you  raymember,  Bridget,"  he  says,  "  whin 

ould  Mrs.  Rafferty  lay  sick  of  a  bad  informaytion  of 

the  stomick;  well,  the  banshee  sat  for  a  full  hour 

keening  an'  cryin'  before  their  house — just  as  it  did 

[189] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

last  night  outside  Cormac  McCarthy's.  An'  you  know 
the  banshee  cried  but  once  at  Rafferty's,  but  never 
rayturned  the  second  time.  The  informaytion  left 
Julia,  and  all  the  wide  worruld  knows,  even  the  King 
of  Spain  might  know  if  he'd  send  to  ax,  that  Julia 
Rafferty,  as  strong  as  a  horse,  was  diggin'  petaties  in 
her  own  field  as  late  as  yesterday." 

"  The  banshee  comes  three  nights  before  anyone 
dies,  doesn't  it,  daddy  ?  "  says  little  Mickey,  waking 
up,  all  excited. 

"  It  does  that,"  says  Darby,  smilin'  proud  at  the 
child's  knowledgeableness ;  "  and  it's  come  but  once 
to  Eileen  McCarthy." 

"  An'  while  the  banshee  cries,  she  sits  combing  her 
hair  with  a  comb  of  goold,  don't  she,  daddy?  " 

Bridget  sat  onaisy,  bitin'  her  lips.  Always  an'  ever 
she  had  sthrove  to  keep  from  the  childher  tidings  of 
fairies  and  of  banshees  an'  ghosts  an'  other  on- 
natural  people.  Twice  she  trun  a  warning  look  at 
Darby,  but  he,  not  noticin',  wint  on,  strokin'  the  little 
.lad's  hair,  an'  sayin'  to  him: 

"  It  does,  indade,  avick ;  an'  as  she  came  but  once 
to  Mrs.  Rafferty's,  so  we  have  ray  son  to  hope  she'll 
come  no  more  to  Cormac  McCarthy's." 
[190] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

*'  Hush  that  nonsinse !  "  says  Bridget,  lookin'  dag- 
gers ;  "  sure  Jack  Doolan  says  that  'twas  no  banshee 
at  all  that  come  to  Rafferty's,  but  only  himself  who 
had  taken  a  drop  too  much  at  the  fair,  an'  on  his  way 
home  sat  down  to  rest  himself  by  Rafferty's  door. 
He  says  that  he  stharted  singin'  pious  hymns  to 
kape  off  the  evil  spirits,  and  everyone  knows  that 
the  same  Jack  Doolan  has  as  turrible  a  woice  for 
singin'  as  any  banshee  that  ever  twishted  a  lip,"  she 
says. 

The  woman's  conthrayriness  vexed  Darby  so  he 
pounded  his  knee  with  his  fist  as  he  answered  her: 
"  You'll  not  deny,  maybe,"  he  says,  "  that  the  Costa 
Bower  sthopped  one  night  at  the  Hall,  and " 

"  Whist !  "  cried  Bridget ;  "  lave  off,"  she  says ; 
"  sure  that's  no  kind  of  talk  to  be  talkin'  this  night 
before  the  childher,"  says  she. 

"  But  mammy,  I  know  what  the  Costa  Bower  is," 
cried  little  Mickey,  sitting  up  straight  in  Darby's  lap 
an'  pinting  his  finger  at  his  mother ;  "  'tis  I  that 
knows  well.  The  Costa  Bower  is  a  gr-r-reat  black 
coach  that  comes  in  the  night  to  carry  down  to 
Croagmah  the  dead  people  the  banshee  keened 
for." 

[191] 


THE      BANSHEES      COMB 

The  other  childher  by  now  were  sitting  boult  up- 
right, stiff  as  ramrods,  and  staring  wild-eyed  at 
Mickey. 

"  The  coachman's  head  is  cut  off  an'  he  houlds  the 
reins  this  away,"  says  the  child,  lettin'  his  hands  fall 
limp  an'  open  at  his  side.  "  Sometimes  it's  all  wisable, 
an'  then  agin  it's  unwisable,  but  always  whin  it  comes 
one  can  hear  the  turrible  rumble  of  its  wheels." 
Mickey's  woice  fell  and,  spreading  out  his  hands,  he 
spoke  slow  an'  solemn.  "  One  Halloween  night  in  the 
woods  down  at  the  black  pond,  Danny  Hogan  heard 
it  coming  an'  he  jumped  behind  a  stone.  The  threes 
couldn't  sthop  it,  they  wint  right  through  it,  an'  as 
it  passed  Danny  Hogan  says  he  saw  one  white,  dead 
face  laned  back  agin  the  dark  cushions,  an'  this  is  the 
night — All  Sowls'  night — whin  it's  sure  to  be  out; 
now  don't  I  know?  "  he  says,  thriumphant. 

At  that  Bridget  started  to  her  feet.  For  a  minute 
she  stood  spacheless  with  vexation  at  the  wild,  fright- 
ing notions  that  had  got  into  the  heads  of  her  chil- 
dher ;  then  "  Glory  be ! "  she  says,  looking  hard  at 
Darby.  You  could  have  heard  a  pin  dhrop  in  the 
room.  Ould  Malachi,  the  big  yellow  cat,  who  until 
this  time  lay  coiled  asleep  on  a  stool,  was  the  best 
[192] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

judge  of  Bridget's  charack-tcr  in  that  house.  So,  no 
sooner  did  he  hear  the  worruds  an'  see  Bridget  start 
up,  than  he  was  on  his  own  four  feet,  his  back  arched, 
his  tail  straight  up,  an'  his  two  goolden  eyes  searchin' 
her  face.  One  look  was  enough  for  him.  The  next 
instant  he  lept  to  the  ground  an'  started  for  the  far 
room.  As  he  scampered  through  the  door,  he  trew  a 
swift  look  back  at  his  comerades,  the  childher,  an' 
that  look  said  plain  as  any  worruds  could  say : 

"  Run  for  it  while  you've  time !  Folly  me ;  some 
one  of  us  vagebones  has  done  something  mur- 
therin' ! " 

Malachi  was  right ;  there  would  have  been  sayrious 
throuble  for  all  hands,  only  that  a  softening  thought 
was  on  Bridget  that  night  which  sobered  her  temper. 
She  stopped  a  bit,  the  frown  on  her  face  clearing  as 
she  looked  at  the  childher,  an'  she  only  said :  "  Come 
out  of  this !  To  bed  with  yez !  I'm  raising  a  pack 
of  owdacious  young  romancers,  an'  I  didn't  know  it. 
Mickey  sthop  that  whimpering  an'  make  haste  with 
your  clothes.  The  Lord  help  us,  he's  broke  off  an- 
other button.  Look  at  that,  now !  "  she  says. 

There  was  no  help  for  thim.  So,  with  longin'  looks 
trun  back  at  their  father,  sittin'  cosey  before  the  fire, 
[193] 


THE      BANSHEES      COMB 

an'  with  consolin'  winks  an'  nods  from  him,  the  chil- 
dher  followed  their  mother  to  the  bedroom. 

Thin,  whilst  Bridget  was  tucking  the  covers  about 
them,  an'  hushing  their  complainings,  Darby  sat  with 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  doing  in  his  head  a  sum  in 
figures ;  an'  that  sum  was  this : 

"  How  much  would  it  be  worth  this  All  Sowls'  night 
for  a  man  to  go  out  that  door  and  walk  past  the 
churchyard  up  to  Cormac  McCarthy,  the  stone-cut- 
ter's house  ?  "  One  time  he  made  the  answer  as  low 
as  tin  pounds  two  shillings  and  thruppence,  but  as 
he  did  so  a  purticular  loud  blast  went  shrieking  past 
outside,  an'  he  raised  the  answer  to  one  thousand  five 
hundred  an'  tunty  pounds  sterling.  "  And  cheap  at 
that,"  he  said  aloud. 

While  he  was  studyin'  thim  saygacious  questions, 
Bridget  stole  quietly  behind  and  put  a  light  hand  on 
his  chowlder.  For  a  minute,  thin,  nayther  of  thim 
said  a  worrud. 

Surprised  at  the  silence,  an'  puzzled  that  little 
Mickey  had  escaped  a  larruping,  Malachi  crept  from 
the  far  room  an'  stood  still  in  the  doorway  judging 
his  misthress.  An'  expression  was  on  her  face  the 
cat  couldn't  quite  make  out.  'Twas  an  elevayted, 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

pitying,  good-hearted,  daytermined  look,  such  as  a 
man  wears  when  he  goes  into  the  sty  to  kill  one  of 
his  own  pigs  for  Christmas. 

Malachi,  being  a  wise  an'  expayieranced  baste, 
daycided  to  take  no  chances,  so  he  backed  through 
the  door  again  an'  hid  undher  the  dhresser  to 
listen. 

"  I  was  just  thinking,  Darby  avourneen,"  says  the 
woman,  half  whuspering,  "  how  we  might  this  blessed 
night  earn  great  credit  for  our  two  sowls." 

"  Wait !  "  says  the  sly  man,  straightening  himself, 
an'  raising  a  hand.  "  The  very  thing  you're  going 
to  spake  was  in  my  own  mind.  I  was  just  dayliber- 
atin'  that  I  hadn't  done  justice  to-night  to  poor  Ei- 
leen. I  haven't  said  me  prayers  farvint  enough.  I 
niver  can  whin  we're  praying  together,  or  whin  I'm 
kneeling  down.  Thin,  like  every  way  else,  there's 
something  quare  about  me.  The  foinest  prayers  I 
ever  say  is  whin  I'm  be  myself  alone  in  the  fields," 
says  the  conniving  villyan.  "  So,  do  you,  Bridget, 
go  in  an'  kneel  down  by  the  childher  for  a  half  hour 
or  so,  an'  I'll  sit  here  doing  my  best.  If  you  should 
happen  to  look  out  at  me  ye  might  aisily  think,"  he 
says,  "  that  I  was  only  sittin'  here  comfortably  smok- 
[195] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

ing  my  pipe,  but  at  the  same  time  prayers'll  be  whirl- 
in*  inside  of  me  like  a  wind-mill,"  says  he. 

"  Oh,  thin,  ain't  I  glad  an'  happy  to  hear  you  say 
thim  worruds,"  says  his  wife,  puttin'  one  foine  arrum 
about  his  neck ;  "  you've  taken  a  load  off  my  heart 
that's  been  weighing  heavy  on  it  all  night,  for  I 
thought  maybe  you'd  be  afeard." 

"  Afeard  of  what?  "  axed  Darby,  liftin'  his  eye- 
brows. Malachi  throtted  bouldly  in  an'  jumped  up 
on  the  stool. 

"  You  know  Father  Cassidy  says,"  whuspered 
Bridget,  "  that  a  loving  deed  of  the  hands  done  for 
the  disthressed  is  itself  a  prayer  worth  a  week  of  com- 
mon prayers." 

"  I  have  nothin'  agin  that  sayin',"  says  Darby,  his 
head  cocked,  an'  he  growin'  suspicious. 

Bridget  wiped  her  forehead  with  her  apron. 
"  Well,  this  afthernoon  I  was  at  McCarthy's  house,"' 
she  wint  on,  soothering  his  hair  with  one  hand,  "  an', 
oh,  but  the  poor  child  was  disthressed!  Her  cheeks 
were  flaming  with  the  faver.  An',  Darby,  the  thirst, 
the  awful  thirst !  I  looked  about  for  a  pinch  of  tay — 
there's  nothing  so  coolin'  for  one  in  the  faver  as  a 
cup  of  wake  tay — an'  the  sorra  scrap  of  it  was  in  the 
[196] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

house,  so  I  tould  Cormac  that  to-night,  as  soon  as  the 
childher  were  in  bed,  I'd  send  you  over  with  a  pinch." 

Every  one  of  Darby's  four  bones  stiffened  an'  a 
mortial  chill  sthruck  into  his  heart. 

"  Listen,  darlint,"  she  says,  "  the  storm's  dying 
down,  so  while  you're  putting  on  your  greatcoat  I'll 
wrap  up  the  bit  of  tay."  He  shook  her  hand  from  his 
chowldhers. 

"  Woman,"  he  says,  with  bitther  politeness,  "  I 
think  you  said  that  we  had  a  great  chanst  to  get 
credit  for  our  two  sowls.  That's  what  I  think  you 
raymarked  and  stibulated,"  says  he. 

"  Arrah,  shouldn't  a  woman  have  great  praise  an' 
credit  who'll  send  her  husband  out  on  such  a  night  as 
this,"  his  wife  says.  "  The  worse  the  con-ditions,  the 
more  credit  she'll  get.  If  a  ghost  were  to  jump  at 
ye  as  you  go  past  the  churchyard,  oughtn't  I  be  the 
happy  woman  entirely  ?  "  says  Bridget. 

There  was  a  kind  of  a  tinkle  in  her  woice,  such  as 
comes  when  Bridget  is  telling  jokes,  so  Darby,  with  a 
sudden  hope  in  his  mind,  turned  quick  to  look  at  her. 
But  there  she  stood  grim,  unfeeling,  an'  daytermined 
as  a  pinted  gun. 

"  Oh,  ho !  is  that  the  way  it  is?  "  he  says.  "  Well, 
[197] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

here's  luck  an'  good  fortune  to  the  ghost  or  skelling- 
ton  that  lays  his  hand  on  me  this  blessed  night !  "  He 
stuck  his  two  hands  deep  in  his  pockets  and  whirled 
one  leg  across  the  other — the  most  aggrawating 
thing  a  man  can  do.  But  Bridget  was  not  the  laste 
discouraged;  she  only  made  up  her  mind  to  come  at 
him  on  his  soft  side,  so  she  spoke  up  an'  said : 

"  Suppose  I  was  dying  of  the  faver,  Darby  O'Gill, 
an'  Cormac  rayfused  to  bring  over  a  pinch  of  tay  to 
me.  What,  then,  would  ye  think  of  the  stone-cutter?  " 

Malachi,  the  cat,  stopped  licking  his  paws,  an'  trun 
a  sharp,  inquiring  eye  at  his  master. 

"  Bridget,"  says  the  knowledgeable  man,  giving 
his  hand  an  argifying  wave.  "  We  have  two  sepa- 
rate ways  of  being  good.  Your  way  is  to  scurry 
round  an'  do  good  acts.  My  way  is  to  keep  from 
doing  bad  ones.  An'  who  knows,"  he  says,  with  a 
pious  sigh,  "  which  way  is  the  betther  one.  It  isn't 
for  us  to  judge,"  says  he,  shakin'  his  head  solemn  at 
the  fire. 

Bridget  walked  out  in  front  of  him  an'  fowlded 
her  arms  tight. 

"  So  you  won't  go,"  she  says,  sharp  an'  suddin'. 

"  The  divil  a  foot ! "  says  he,  beginnin'  to  whustle. 
[198] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

You'd  think,  now,  Bridget  was  bate,  but  she  stilj 
hildt  her  trump  card,  an'  until  that  was  played  an* 
lost  the  lad  wasn't  safe.  "  All  right,  me  brave  hay- 
ro,"  says  she ;  "  do  you  sit  there  be  the  fire ;  I'll  go 
meself,"  she  says.  With  that  she  bounced  into  the 
childher's  room  an'  began  to  get  ready  her  cloak  an* 
hood. 

For  a  minute  Darby  sat  pokin'  the  fire,  muttherin' 
to  himself  an'  feeling  very  discommodious.  Thin, 
just  to  show  he  wasn't  the  laste  bit  onaisy,  the  lad 
cleared  his  throat,  and  waggin'  his  head  at  the  fire, 
began  to  sing : 

"  Yarra  f  as  I  walked  out  one  mor-r-niv?  att  in  the  month  ofJww 
The  primrosies  and  daisies  o»'  cowslips  were  in  bloom, 
I  spied  apurty  fair  maid  a-sthrolliri'  on  the  lea, 
Art  Rory  Bory  Alice,  nor  any  other  ould  ancient  haythan  goddess 

was  not  half  so  fair  as  she. 

Says  I,  '  Me  pwrtyfair  maid,  Pll  take  you  for  me  bride. 
An'  if  you'll  pay  no  at-TIN-tion ' " 

Glancing  up  sudden,  he  saw  Malachi's  eye  on  him, 
and  if  ever  the  faytures  of  a  cat  spoke  silent  but  plain 
langwidge  Malachi's  face  talked  that  minute  to  its 
master,  and  this  is  what  it  said: 

"  Well,  of  all  the  cowardly,  creaking  bostheens 
[199] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

I  ever  see  in  all  me  born  days  you  are  the  worst, 
Darby  O'Gill.  You've  not  only  guve  impidence  to 
your  wife — an'  she's  worth  four  of  you — but  you've 
gone  back  on  the  friends  you  purtended  to " 

Malachi's  faytures  got  no  further  in  their  insultin' 
raymarks,  for  at  that  Darby  swooped  up  a  big  sod 
of  turf  an'  let  it  fly  at  the  owdacious  baste. 

Now  it  is  well  known  that  be  a  spontaneous  trow 
like  that  no  one  ever  yet  hit  a  sinsible  cat,  but  always 
an'  ever  in  that  unlucky  endayvour  he  strikes  a  dam- 
aginger  blow  where  it's  not  intinded.  So  it  was  this 
time. 

Bridget,  wearing  her  red  cloak  an'  hood,  was  just 
coming  through  the  door,  an'  that  misfortunate  sod 
of  turf  caught  her  fair  an'  square,  right  below  the 
chist,  an'  she  staggered  back  agin  the  wall. 

Darby's  consthernaytion  an'  complycation  an'  tur- 
pitaytion  were  beyant  imaginaytion. 

Bridget  laned  there  gasping.  If  she  felt  as  bad  as 
she  looked,  four  Dublint  surgunts  with  their  saws  an' 
knives  couldn't  have  done  her  a  ha-porth  of  good. 
Howsumever,  for  all  that,  the  sly  woman  had  seen 
Malachi  dodge  an'  go  gallopin'  away,  but  she  pur- 
tendid  to  think  'twas  at  herself  the  turf  was  trun. 
[200] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

Not  that  she  scolded,  or  anything  so  common  as  that, 
but  she  went  on  like  an  early  Christian  marthyer  who 
was  just  goin'  to  be  inthro juiced  to  the  roaring 
loins. 

Well,  as  you  may  aisy  see,  the  poor  man,  her  hus- 
band, hadn't  a  chanst  in  the  worruld  af  ther  that.  Of 
course,  to  rightify  himself,  he'd  face  all  the  ghosts  in 
Croaghmah.  So,  in  a  minute,  he  was  standing  in  his 
greatcoat  with  his  hand  on  the  latch.  There  was  a 
packet  of  tay  in  his  pocket,  an'  he  was  a  subdued  an' 
conquered  man. 

He  looked  so  woful  that  Bridget  raypented  an* 
almost  raylinted. 

"  Raymember,"  he  says,  mournful,  "  if  I'm  caught 
this  night  be  the  Costa  Bower,  or  be  the  banshee,  take 
good  care  of  the  childher,  an'  raymember  what  I 
say — I  didn't  mane,  Bridget,  to  hit  ye  with  that  sod 
of  turf." 

"  Oh,  ain't  ye  the  foolish  darlin'  to  be  af  eared," 
smiled  Bridget  back  at  him,  but  she  was  sayrious,  too. 
"  Don't  you  know  that  when  one  goes  on  an  errant 
of  marcy  a  score  of  God's  white  angels  with  swoords 
in  their  hands  march  before  an'  beside  an'  afther  him, 
keeping  his  path  free  from  danger  ?  "  With  that  she 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

pulled  his  face  down  to  hers,  an'  kissed  him  as  she  used 
in  the  ould  courtin'  days. 

There's  nothing  puts  so  much  high  courage  an* 
clear,  steadfast  purpose  in  a  man's  heart,  if  it  be 
properly  given,  as  a  kiss  from  the  woman  he  loves. 
So,  with  the  warmth  of  that  kiss  to  cheer  him,  Darby 
set  his  face  agin  the  storm. 


202  ] 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  BANSHEE'S  HALLOWEEN 


Halloween  night,  to  all  unhappy  ghosts,  is  about 
the  same  as  St.  Patrick's  Day  is  to  you  or  to  me — 
'tis  a  great  holiday  in  every  churchyard.  An'  no 
one  knew  this  betther  or  felt  it  keener  than  did  Darby 
O'Gill,  that  same  Halloween  night,  as  he  stood  on 
his  own  doorstep  with  the  paper  of  black  tay  for 
Eileen  McCarthy  safely  stowed  away  in  the  crown  of 
his  top-hat. 

No  one  in  that  barony  was  quicker  than  he  at  an 
act  of  neighbourly  kindness,  but  now,  as  he  huddled 
himself  together  in  the  shelter  of  his  own  eaves,  and 
thought  of  the  dangers  before,  an'  of  the  cheerful 
fire  an'  comfortable  bed  he  was  leaving  behint,  black 
raybellion  rushed  shouting  across  his  heart. 

"  Oh,  my,  oh,  my,  what  a  perishin'  night  to  turn 
a  man  out  into !  "  he  says.     "  It'd  be  half  a  comfort 
to  know  I  was  goin'  to  be  kilt  before  I  got  back,  just 
as  a  warnin'  to  Bridget,"  says  he. 
[203] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

The  misthrayted  lad  turned  a  sour  eye  on  the  chu- 
multuous  weather,  an'  groaned  deep  as  he  pulled 
closer  about  his  chowldhers  the  cape  of  his  greatcoat 
an'  plunged  into  the  daysarted  an'  flooded  roadway. 

Howsumever,  'twas  not  the  pelting  rain,  nor  the 
lashing  wind,  nor  yet  the  pitchy  darkness  that 
bothered  the  heart  out  of  him  as  he  wint  splashin'  an' 
stumbling  along  the  road.  A  thought  of  something 
more  raylentless  than  the  storm,  more  mystarious  than 
the  night's  blackness  put  pounds  of  lead  into  the  lad's 
unwilling  brogues;  for  somewhere  in  the  shrouding 
darkness  that  covered  McCarthy's  house  the  banshee 
was  waiting  this  minute,  purhaps,  ready  to  jump  out 
at  him  as  soon  as  he  came  near  her. 

And,  oh,  if  the  banshee  nabbed  him  there,  what  in 
the  worruld  would  the  poor  lad  do  to  save  himself? 

At  the  raylisation  of  this  sitiwation,  the  goose-flesh 
crept  up  his  back  an'  settled  on  his  neck  an'  chowl- 
dhers. He  began  to  cast  about  in  his  mind  for  a  bit 
of  cheer  or  a  scrap  of  comfort,  as  a  man  in  such  sar- 
cumstances  will  do.  So,  grumblin'  an'  sore-hearted, 
he  turned  over  Bridget's  parting  words.  "  If  one  goes 
on  an  errant  of  marcy,"  Bridget  had  said,  "  a  score 
of  God's  white  angels  with  swoords  in  their  hands 
[204] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

march  before  an'  beside  an'  afther  him,  keeping  his 
path  free  from  danger." 

He  felt  anxious  in  his  hat  for  the  bit  of  chari- 
table tay  he  was  bringin',  and  was  glad  to  find  it  there 
safe  an'  dhry  enough,  though  the  rest  of  him  was 
drenched  through  an'  through. 

"  Isn't  this  an  act  of  charity  I'm  doin',  to  be  bring- 
in'  a  cooling  drink  to  a  dyin'  woman?  "  he  axed  him- 
self aloud.  "  To  be  sure  it  is.  Well,  then,  what  ray- 
son  have  I  to  be  af eared  ?  "  says  he,  pokin'  his  two 
hands  into  his  pockets.  Arrah,  it's  aisy  enough  to 
bolsther  up  one's  heart  with  wise  sayin'  an'  hayroic 
praycepts  when  sitting  comodious  by  one's  own  fire; 
but  talkin'  wise  words  to  one's  self  is  mighty  poor  com- 
fort when  you're  on  the  lonely  high-road  of  a  Hal- 
loween night,  with  a  churchyard  waitin'  for  ye  on  the 
top  of  the  hill  not  two  hundred  yards  away.  If  there 
was  only  one  star  to  break  through  the  thick  sky  an' 
shine  for  him,  if  there  was  but  one  friendly  cow  to  low 
or  a  distant  cock  to  break  the  teeming  silence,  'twould 
put  some  heart  into  the  man.  But  not  a  sound  was 
there  only  the  swish  and  wailing  of  the  wind  through 
the  inwisible  hedges. 

"  What's  the  matther  with  the  whole  worruld? 
[205] 


THE      BANSHEES      COMB 

Where  is  it  wanished  to  ?  "  says  Darby.  "  If  a  ghost 
were  to  jump  at  me  from  the  churchyard  wall,  where 
would  I  look  for  help?  To  run  is  no  use,"  he  says, 
"  an'  to  face  it  is " 

Just  then  the  current  of  his  misdoubtings  ran 
whack  up  against  a  sayin'  of  ould  Peggy  O'Cal- 
laghan.  Mrs.  O'Callaghan's  repitation  for  truth  and 
voracity,  whin  it  come  to  fairy  tales  or  ghost  stories, 
be  it  known,  was  ayquil  if  not  shuparior  to  the  best  in 
Tipperary.  Now,  Peggy  had  towld  Ned  Mullin,  an' 
Ned  Mullin  had  towld  Bill  Donahue,  the  tinker,  an' 
the  tinker  had  adwised  Darby  that  no  one  need  ever  be 
af eared  of  ghosts  if  he  only  had  the  courage  to  face 
them. 

Peggy  said,  "  The  poor  crachures  ain't  roamin' 
about  shakin'  chains  an'  moanin'  an'  groanin',  just 
for  the  sport  of  scarin'  people,  nor  yet  out  of  mane- 
ness.  'Tis  always  a  throuble  that's  on  their  minds 
— a  message  they  want  sint,  a  saycret  they're  enday- 
vouring  to  unload.  So  instead  of  flyin'  from  the  on- 
happy  things,  as  most  people  generally  do,"  she  said, 
"  one  should  walk  up  bowld  to  the  apparraytion,  be  it 
gentle  or  common,  male  or  faymale,  an'  say,  '  What 
throubles  ye,  sir?  '  or  *  What's  amiss  with  ye,  ma'am?  ' 
[206] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

An'  take  my  worrud  for  it,"  says  she,  "  ye'll  find 
yourself  a  boneyfactor  to  them  when  you  laste  expect 
it,"  she  says. 

'Twas  a  quare  idee,  but  not  so  onraysonable  afther 
all  whin  one  comes  to  think  of  it ;  an'  the  knowledge- 
able man  fell  to  dayliberatin'  whether  he'd  have  the 
hardness  to  folly  it  out  if  the  chanst  came.  Some- 
times he  thought  he  would,  then  agin  he  was  sure  he 
wouldn't.  For  Darby  O'Gill  was  one  who  bint  quick 
undher  trouble  like  a  young  three  before  a  hurrycane, 
but  he  only  bint — the  throuble  never  broke  him.  So, 
at  times  his  courage  wint  down  to  a  spark  like  the 
light  of  a  candle  in  a  gust  of  wind,  but  before  you 
could  turn  on  your  heel  'twas  blazing  up  sthrong  and 
fiercer  than  before. 

Whilst  thus  contimplatin'  an'  meditaytin',  his  foot 
sthruck  the  bridge  in  the  hollow  just  below  the  ber- 
rin'-ground,  an'  there  as  the  boy  paused  a  minute, 
churning  up  bravery  enough  to  carry  him  up  the  hill 
an'  past  the  mystarious  gravestones,  there  came  a 
short  quiver  of  lightning,  an'  in  its  sudden  flare  he 
was  sure  he  saw  not  tin  yards  away,  an'  comin'  down 
the  hill  toward  him,  a  dim  shape  that  took  the  breath 
out  of  his  body. 

[207] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

"  Oh,  be  the  powers ! "  he  gasped,  his  courage 
emptying  out  like  wather  from  a  spilt  pail. 

It  moved,  a  slow,  grey,  formless  thing  without  a 
head,  an'  so  far  as  he  was  able  to  judge  it  might  be 
about  the  size  of  an  ulephant.  The  parsecuted  lad 
swung  himself  sideways  in  the  road,  one  arrum  over 
his  eyes  an'  the  other  stretched  out  at  full  length, 
as  if  to  ward  off  the  tumble  wisitor. 

The  first  thing  that  began  to  take  any  shape  in  his 
bewildhered  brain  was  Peggy  O'Callaghan's  adwice. 
He  thried  to  folly  it  out,  but  a  chatterin'  of  teeth  was 
the  only  sound  he  made.  An'  all  this  time  a  thray- 
mendous  splashin',  like  the  floppin'  of  whales,  was 
coming  nearer  an'  nearer. 

The  splashin'  stopped  not  three  feet  away,  an'  the 
ha'nted  man  felt  in  the  spine  of  his  back  an'  in  the 
calves  of  his  legs  that  a  powerful,  unhowly  monsther 
towered  over  him. 

Why  he  didn't  swoonge  in  his  tracks  is  the  won- 
dher.  He  says  he  would  have  dhropped  at  last  if  it 
weren't  for  the  distant  bark  of  his  own  good  dog, 
Sayser,  that  put  a  throb  of  courage  intil  his  bones. 
At  that  friendly  sound  he  opened  his  two  dhry  lips 
an'  stutthered  this  sayin': 

[208] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

"  Whoever  you  are,  an'  whatever  shape  ye  come  in, 
take  heed  that  I'm  not  afeared,"  he  says.  "  I  com- 
mand ye  to  tell  me  your  throubles  an'  I'll  be  your 
boneyfactor.  Then  go  back  dacint  an'  rayspectable 
where  you're  buried.  Spake  an'  I'll  listen,"  says  he. 

He  waited  for  a  reply,  an'  getting  none,  a  hot 
splinther  of  shame  at  bein'  so  badly  frightened  turned 
his  sowl  into  wexation.  "  Spake  up,"  he  says,  "  but 
come  no  furder,  for  if  you  do,  be  the  hokey  I'll  take 
one  thry  at  ye,  ghost  or  no  ghost ! "  he  says.  Once 
more  he  waited,  an'  as  he  was  lowering  the  arrum 
from  his  eyes  for  a  peek,  the  ghost  spoke  up,  an'  its 
answer  came  in  two  pitiful,  disthressed  roars.  A 
damp  breath  puffed  acrost  his  face,  an'  openin'  his 
eyes,  what  should  the  lad  see  but  the  two  dhroopin' 
ears  of  Solomon,  Mrs.  Kilcannon's  grey  donkey. 
Foive  different  kinds  of  disgust  biled  up  into  Darby's 
throat  an'  almost  sthrangled  him.  "  Ye  murdherin', 
big-headed  imposture !  "  he  gasped. 

Half  a  minute  afther  a  brown  hoot-owl,  which  was 
shelthered  in  a  near-by  black-thorn  three,  called  out  to 
his  brother's  f ambly  which  inhabited  the  belfry  of  the 
chapel  above  on  the  hill  that  some  black-minded  spal- 
peen had  hoult  of  Solomon  Kilcannon  be  the  two  ears 
[209] 


THE    BANSHEE'S    COMB 

an'  was  kickin'  the  ribs  out  of  him,  an'  that  the  lan- 
gwidge  the  man  was  usin'  to  the  poor  baste  was  worse 
than  scan'lous. 

Although  Darby  couldn't  undherstand  what  the 
owl  was  sayin',  he  was  startled  be  the  blood-curdlin' 
hoot,  an'  that  same  hoot  saved  Solomon  from  any 
further  exthrayornery  throuncin',  bekase  as  the  angry 
man  sthopped  to  hearken  there  flashed  on  him  the 
rayilisation  that  he  was  bating  an'  crool  maulthrayt- 
in'  a  blessing  in  dishguise.  For  this  same  Solomon 
had  the  repitation  of  being  the  knowingest,  sensiblist 
thing  which  walked  on  four  legs  in  that  parish.  He 
was  a  fayvourite  with  young  an'  old,  especially  with 
childher,  an*  Mrs.  Kilcannon  said  she  could  talk  to 
him  as  if  he  were  a  human,  an'  she  was  sure  he  un- 
dersthood.  In  the  face  of  thim  facts  the  knowledge- 
able man  changed  his  chune,  an'  puttin'  his  arrum 
friendly  around  the  disthressed  animal's  neck,  he 
said: 

"  Aren't  ye  ashamed  of  yerself,  Solomon,  to  be  pay- 
radin'  an'  mayandherin'  around  the  churchyard  Hal- 
loween night,  dishguisin'  yerself  this  away  as  an  out- 
landish ghost,  an'  you  havin'  the  foine  repitation  for 
daciency  an'  good  manners  ?  "  he  says,  excusin'  him- 
[210] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

self.  "  I'm  ashamed  of  you,  so  I  am,  Solomon,"  says 
he,  hauling  the  baste  about  in  the  road,  an'  turning 
him  till  his  head  faced  once  more  the  hillside.  "  Come 
back  with  me  now  to  Cormac  McCarthy's,  avourneen. 
We've  aich  been  in  worse  company,  I'm  thinkin' ;  at 
laste  you  have,  Solomon,"  says  he. 

At  that,  kind  an'  friendly  enough,  the  forgivin' 
baste  turned  with  him,  an'  the  two  keeping  aich  other 
slitherin'  company,  went  stumblin'  an'  scramblin' 
up  the  hill  toward  the  chapel.  On  the  way  Darby 
kept  up  a  one-sided  conwersation  about  all  manner 
of  things,  just  so  that  the  ring  of  a  human  woice, 
even  if  'twas  only  his  own,  would  take  a  bit  of  the 
crool  lonesomeness  out  of  the  dark  hedges. 

"  Did  you  notice  McDonald's  sthrame  as  you  came 
along  the  night,  Solomon?  It  must  be  a  roarin'  tor- 
rent be  this,  with  the  pourin'  rains,  an'  we'll  have  to 
cross  it,"  says  he.  "  We  could  go  over  McDonald's 
stone  bridge  that  stands  ferninst  McCarthy's  house, 
with  only  Nolan's  meadow  betwixt  the  two,  but,"  says 
Darby,  laying  a  hand,  confaydential  on  the  ass's  wet 
back,  "  'tis  only  a  fortnit  since  long  Faylix,  the  blind 
beggarman,  fell  from  the  same  bridge  and  broke  his 
neck,  an'  what  more  natural,"  he  axed,  "  than  that 
[211] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

the  ghost  of  Faylix  would  be  celebraytin'  its  first  Hal- 
loween, as  a  ghost,  at  the  spot  where  he  was  kilt  ?  " 

You  may  believe  me  or  believe  me  not,  but  at  thim 
worruds  Solomon  sthopped  dead  still  in  his  thracks 
an'  rayfused  to  go  another  step  till  Darby  coaxed  him 
on  be  sayin' : 

"  Oh,  thin,  we  won't  cross  it  if  you're  afeared,  little 
man,"  says  he,  "  but  we'll  take  the  path  through  the 
fields  on  this  side  of  it,  and  we'll  cross  the  sthrame  by 
McCarthy's  own  wooden  foot-bridge.  'Tis  within 
tunty  feet  of  the  house.  Oh,  ye  needn't  be  afeared," 
he  says  agin ;  "  I've  seen  the  cows  cross  it,  so  it'll 
surely  hould  the  both  of  us." 

A  sudden  raymembrance  whipped  into  his  mind  of 
how  tall  the  stile  was,  ladin'  into  Nolan's  meadow,  an' 
the  boy  was  puzzling  deep  in  his  mind  to  know  how  was 
Solomon  to  climb  acrost  that  stile,  whin  all  at  once  the 
gloomy  western  gate  of  the  graveyard  rose  quick  be 
their  side. 

The  two  shied  to  the  opposite  hedge,  an*  no  won- 
dher  they  did. 

Fufty  ghosts,  all  in  their  shrouds,  sat  cheek  be 
jowl  along  the  churchyard  wall,  never  caring  a  ha'- 
porth  for  the  wind  or  the  rain. 
[  212  ] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

There  was  little  Ted  Rogers,  the  humpback,  who 
was  dhrownded  in  Mullin's  well  four  years  come 
Michaelmas;  there  was  black  Mulligan,  the  game- 
keeper, who  shot  Ryan,  the  poacher,  sittin'  with  a 
gun  on  his  lap,  an'  he  glowerin' ;  beside  the  game- 
keeper sat  the  poacher,  with  a  jagged  black  hole  in 
his  forehead ;  there  was  Thady  Finnegan,  the  scholar, 
who  was  disappointed  in  love  an'  died  of  a  daycline ; 
furder  on  sat  Mrs.  Houlihan,  who  dayparted  this  life 
from  ating  of  pizen  musherooms;  next  to  her  sat — 
oh,  a  hundhred  others ! 

Not  that  Darby  saw  thim,  do  ye  mind.  He  had 
too  good  sinse  to  look  that  way  at  all.  He  walked 
with  his  head  turned  out  to  the  open  fields,  an'  his 
eyes  squeeged  shut.  But  something  in  his  mind  toult 
him  they  were  there,  an'  he  felt  in  the  marrow  of  his 
bones  that  if  he  gave  them  the  encouragement  of  one 
glance  two  or  three'd  slip  off  the  wall  an'  come  moan- 
in'  over  to  tell  him  their  throubles. 

What  Solomon  saw  an'  what  Solomon  heard,  as  the 
two  wint  shrinkin'  along'll  never  be  known  to  living 
man,  but  once  he  gave  a  jump,  an'  twice  Darby  felt 
him  thrimblin',  an'  whin  they  raiched  at  last  the 
chapel  wall  the  baste  broke  into  a  swift  throt.  Purty 
[213] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

soon  he  galloped,  an'  Darby  wint  gallopin'  with  him, 
till  two  yallow  blurs  of  light  across  in  a  field  to  the 
left  marked  the  windys  of  the  stone-cutter's  cottage. 

'Twas  a  few  steps  only,  thin,  to  the  stile  over  into 
Nolan's  meadow,  an'  there  the  two  stopped,  lookin' 
helpless  at  aich  other.  Solomon  had  to  be  lifted,  and 
there  was  the  throuble.  Three  times  Darby  thried 
be  main  strength  to  hist  his  compagnen  up  the  steps, 
but  in  vain,  an'  Solomon  was  clane  dishgusted. 

Only  for  the  tendher  corn  on  our  hayro's  left  little 
toe,  I  think  maybe  that  at  length  an'  at  last  the  pair 
would  have  got  safe  over.  The  kind-hearted  lad  had 
the  donkey's  two  little  hoofs  planted  on  the  top  step, 
an'  whilst  he  himself  was  liftin'  the  rest  of  the  baste 
in  his  arrums,  Solomon  got  onaisy  that  he  was  goin' 
to  be  trun,  an'  so  began  to  twisht  an*  squirm;  of 
course,  as  he  did,  Darby  slipped  an'  wint  thump  on 
his  back  agin  the  stile,  with  Solomon  sittin'  comfort- 
able on  top  of  the  lad's  chist.  But  that  wasn't  the 
worst  of  it,  for  as  the  baste  scrambled  up  he  planted 
one  hard  little  hoof  on  Darby's  left  foot,  an'  the 
knowledgeable  man  let  a  yowl  out  of  him  that  must 
have  frightened  all  the  ghosts  within  miles. 

Seein'  he'd  done  wrong,  Solomon  boulted  for  the 
[214] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

middle  of  the  road  an'  stood  there  wiry  an'  attentive, 
listening  to  the  names  flung  at  him  from  where  his 
late  comerade  sat  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  stile  nursin' 
the  hurted  foot. 

'Twas  an  excited  owl  in  the  belfry  that  this  time 
spoke  up  an'  shouted  to  his  brother  down  in  the  black- 
thorn : 

"  Come  up,  come  up  quick ! "  it  says.  "  Darby 
O'Gill  is  just  afther  calling  Solomon  Kilcannon  a 
malayfactor." 

Darby  rose  at  last,  an'  as  he  climbed  over  the  stile 
he  turned  to  shake  his  fist  toward  the  middle  of  the 
road. 

"  Bad  luck  to  ye  for  a  thick-headed,  on-grateful 
informer ! "  he  says ;  "  you  go  your  way  an'  I'll  go 
mine — we're  sundhers,"  says  he.  So  sayin',  the  crip- 
pled man  wint  limpin'  an'  grumplin'  down  the  boreen, 
through  the  meadow,  whilst  his  desarted  friend  sint 
rayproachf ul  brays  afther  him  that  would  go  to  your 
heart. 

The  throbbin'  of  our  hayro's  toe  banished  all  pity 

for  the  baste,  an'  even  all  thoughts  of  the  banshee, 

till  a  long,  gurgling,  swooping  sound  in  front  toult 

him  that  his    fears  about  the   rise   in    McDonald's 

[215] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

sthrame  were  undher  rather  than  over  the  actwil  con- 
ditions. 

Fearin'  that  the  wooden  foot-bridge  might  be  swept 
away,  as  it  had  been  the  year  purvious,  he  hurried 
on. 

Most  times  this  sthrame  was  only  a  quiet  little 
brook  that  ran  betwixt  purty  green  banks,  with  hardly 
enough  wather  in  it  to  turn  the  broken  wheel  in  Cliar- 
tres'  runed  mill;  but  to-night  it  swept  along  an 
angry,  snarlin',  growlin'  river  that  overlept  its  banks 
an'  dhragged  wildly  at  the  swaying  willows. 

Be  a  narrow  throw  of  light  from  McCarthy's  side 
windy  our  thraveller  could  see  the  maddened  wather 
sthrivin'  an'  tearing  to  pull  with  it  the  props  of  the 
little  foot-bridge ;  an'  the  boards  shook  an'  the  centre 
swayed  undher  his  feet  as  he  passed  over.  "  Bedad, 
I'll  not  cross  this  way  goin'  home,  at  any  rate,"  he 
says,  looking  back  at  it. 

The  worruds  were  no  sooner  out  of  his  mouth  than 
there  was  a  crack,  an'  the  middle  of  the  foot-bridge 
lifted  in  the  air,  twishted  round  for  a  second,  an  then 
hurled  itself  into  the  sthrame,  laving  the  two  inds  still 
standing  in  their  place  on  the  banks. 

"  Tunder  an*  turf ! "  he  cried,  "  I  mustn't  forget 
[216] 


THE      BANSHEE     S       COMB 

to  tell  the  people  within  of  this,  for  if  ever  there  was 
a  thrap  set  by  evil  spirits  to  drownd  a  poor,  unwary 
mortial,  there  it  stands.  Oh,  ain't  the  ghosts  tumble 
wicious  on  Halloween !  " 

He  stood  dhrippin'  a  minute  on  the  threshold,  lis- 
tening; thin,  without  knockin',  lifted  the  latch  an* 
stepped  softly  into  the  house. 


II 


Two  candles  burned  above  the  blue  and  white 
chiney  dishes  on  the  table,  a  bright  fire  blazed  on  the 
hearth,  an'  over  in  the  corner  where  the  low  bed  was 
set  the  stone-cutter  was  on  his  knees  beside  it. 

Eileen  lay  on  her  side,  her  shining  hair  sthrealed 
out  on  the  pillow.  Her  purty,  flushed  face  was  turned 
to  Cormac,  who  knelt  with  his  forehead  hid  on  the  bed- 
covers. The  colleen's  two  little  hands  were  clasped 
about  the  great  fist  of  her  husband,  an'  she  was  talk- 
ing low,  but  so  airnest  that  her  whole  life  was  in 
every  worrud. 

"  God  save  all  here ! "  said  Darby,  takin'  off  his 
hat,  but  there  was  no  answer.  So  deep  were  Cormac 
an'  Eileen  in  some  conwersation  they  were  having 
[217] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

together  that  they  didn't  hear  his  coming.  The 
knowledgeable  man  didn't  know  what  to  do.  He  ray- 
lised  that  a  husband  and  wife  about  to  part  for  ever 
were  lookin'  into  aich  other's  hearts,  for  maybe  the 
last  time.  So  he  just  sthood  shifting  from  one  foot 
to  the  other,  watching  thim,  unable  to  daypart,  an' 
not  wishin'  to  obtrude. 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  death  at  all  that  I  fear,"  Eileen  was 
saying.  "  No,  no,  Cormac  asthore,  'tis  not  that  I'm 
misdoubtful  of;  but,  ochone  mavrone,  'tis  you  I 
fear!" 

The  kneelin'  man  gave  one  swift  upward  glance, 
and  dhrew  his  face  nearer  to  the  sick  wife.  She  wint 
on,  thin,  spakin'  tindher  an'  half  smiling  an'  sthrck- 
in'  his  hand: 

"  I  know,  darlint,  I  know  well,  so  you  needn't  tell 
me,  that  if  I  were  to  live  with  you  a  thousand  years 
you'd  never  sthray  in  mind  or  thought  to  any  other 
woman,  but  it's  when  I'm  gone — when  the  lonesome 
avenings  folly  aich  other  through  days  an'  months, 
an'  maybe  years,  an'  you  sitting  here  at  this  fireside 
without  one  to  speak  to,  an'  you  so  handsome  an' 
gran',  an'  with  the  penny  or  two  we've  put 

away " 

[218] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

"  Oh,  asthore  machree,  why  can't  ye  banish  thim 
black  thoughts !  "  says  the  stone-cutter.  "  Maybe," 
he  says,  "  the  banshee  will  not  come  again.  Ain't 
all  the  counthry-side  prayin'  for  ye  this  night, 
an'  didn't  Father  Cassidy  himself  bid  you  to  hope? 
The  saints  in  Heaven  couldn't  be  so  crool !  "  says 
he. 

But  the  colleen  wint  on  as  though  she  hadn't  heard 
him,  or  as  if  he  hadn't  intherrupted  her : 

"  An'  listen,"  says  she ;  "  they'll  come  urging  ye, 
the  neighbours,  an'  raysonin'  with  you.  You're  own 
flesh  an'  blood'll  come,  an',  no  doubt,  me  own  with 
them,  an'  they  all  sthriving  to  push  me  out  of  your 
heart,  an'  to  put  another  woman  there  in  my  place. 
I'll  know  it  all,  but  I  won't  be  able  to  call  to  you,  Cor- 
mac  machree,  for  I'll  be  lying  silent  undher  the  grass, 
or  undher  the  snow  up  behind  the  church." 

While  she  was  sayin'  thim  last  worruds,  although 
Darby's  heart  was  meltin'  for  Eileen,  his  mind  be- 
gan running  over  the  colleens  of  that  townland  to 
pick  out  the  one  who'd  be  most  likely  to  marry  Cor- 
mac  in  the  ind.  You  know  how  far-seeing  an'  quick- 
minded  was  the  knowledgeable  man.  He  settled  sud- 
den on  the  Hanlon  girl,  an'  daycided  at  once  that 
[219] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

she'd  have  Cormac  before  the  year  was  out.  The 
ondaycency  of  such  a  thing  made  him  furious  at 
her. 

He  says  to  himself,  half  crying,  "  Why,  then,  bad 
cess  to  you  for  a  shameless,  red-haired,  forward  bag- 
gage, Bridget  Hanlon,  to  be  runnin'  afther  the  man, 
an'  throwing  yourself  in  his  way,  an'  Eileen  not  yet 
cowld  in  her  grave !  "  he  says. 

While  he  was  saying  them  things  to  himself, 
McCarthy  had  been  whuspering  fierce  to  his  wife,  but 
what  it  was  the  stone-cutter  said  the  friend  of  the 
fairies  couldn't  hear.  Eileen  herself  spoke  clean 
enough  in  answer,  for  the  faver  gave  her  onnatural 
strength. 

"  Don't  think,"  she  says,  "  that  it's  the  first  time 
this  thought  has  come  to  me.  Two  months  ago,  whin 
I  was  sthrong  an'  well  an'  sittin'  happy  as  a  meadow- 
lark  at  your  side,  the  same  black  shadow  dhrif ted  over 
me  heart.  The  worst  of  it  an'  the  hardest  to  bear 
of  all  is  that  they'll  be  in  the  right,  for  what  good  can 
I  do  for  you  when  I'm  undher  the  clay,"  says  she. 

"  It's  different  with  a  woman.     If  you  were  taken 
an'  I  left  I'd  wear  your  face  in  my  heart  through  all 
me  life,  an'  ax  for  no  sweeter  company." 
*  [ 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

"  Eileen,"  says  Cormac,  liftin'  his  hand,  an'  his 
woice  was  hoarse  as  the  roar  of  the  say,  "  I  swear  to 
you  on  me  bendid  knees " 

With  her  hand  on  his  lips,  she  sthopped  him. 
"  There'll  come  on  ye  by  daygrees  a  great  cravin'  for 
sympathy,  a  hunger  an'  a  longing  for  affection,  an* 
you'll  have  only  the  shadow  of  my  poor,  wanished 
face  to  comfort  you,  an'  a  recollection  of  a  woice  that 
is  gone  for  ever.  A  new,  warm  face'll  keep  pushin' 
itself  betwixt  us " 

"  Bad  luck  to  that  red-headed  hussy !  "  mutthered 
Darby,  looking  around  disthressed.  "  I'll  warn  fa- 
ther Cassidy  of  her  an'  of  her  intintions  the  day 
afther  the  funeral." 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute;  Cormac,  the  poor 
lad,  was  sobbing  like  a  child.  By-and-by  Eileen  wint 
on  again,  but  her  woice  was  failing  an'  Darby  could 
see  that  her  cheeks  were  wet. 

"  The  day'll  come  when  you'll  give  over,"  she  says. 
"  Ah,  I  see  how  it'll  all  ind.  Afther  that  you'll  visit 
the  churchyard  be  stealth,  so  as  not  to  make  the  other 
woman  sore-hearted." 

"  My,  oh,  my,  isn't  she  the  f ar-seein'  woman  ?  " 
thought  Darby. 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

"  Little  childher'll  come,"  she  says,  "  an'  their  soft, 
warm  arrums  will  hould  you  away.  By-and-by  you'll 
not  go  where  I'm  laid  at  all,  an'  all  thoughts  of  these 
few  happy  months  we've  spent  together —  Oh! 
Mother  in  Heaven,  how  happy  they  were " 

The  girl  started  to  her  elbow,  for,  sharp  an'  sud- 
den, a  wild,  wailing  cry  just  outside  the  windy  star- 
tled the  shuddering  darkness.  'Twas  a  long  cry  of 
terror  and  of  grief,  not  shrill,  but  piercing  as  a  knife- 
thrust.  Every  hair  on  Darby's  head  stood  up  an* 
pricked  him  like  a  needle.  'Twas  the  banshee ! 

"  Whist,  listen !  "  says  Eileen.  "  Oh,  Cormac  as- 
thore,  it's  come  for  me  again !  "  With  that,  stiff  with 
terror,  she  buried  herself  undher  the  pillows. 

A  second  cry  follyed  the  first,  only  this  time  it  was 
longer,  and  rose  an'  swelled  into  a  kind  of  a  song  that 
broke  at  last  into  the  heart-breakingest  moan  that  ever 
fell  on  mortial  ears.  "  Ochone !  "  it  sobbed. 

The  knowledgeable  man,  his  blood  turned  to  ice, 
his  legs  thremblin'  like  a  hare's,  stood  looking  in  spite 
of  himself  at  the  black  windy-panes,  expecting  some 
frightful  wision. 

Afther  that  second  cry  the  woice  balanced  itself  up 
an'  down  into  the  awful  death  keen.  One  word  made 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

the  whole  song,  and  that  was  the  turruble  worrud, 
"  Forever ! " 

"  Forever  an'  forever,  oh,  forever ! "  swung  the 
wild  keen,  until  all  the  deep  meaning  of  the  worrud 
burned  itself  into  Darby's  sowl,  thin  the  heart-break- 
in'  sob,  "  Ochone ! "  inded  always  the  varse. 

Darby  was  just  wondherin'  whether  he  himself 
wouldn't  go  mad  with  fright,  whin  he  gave  a  sudden 
jump  at  a  hard,  sthrained  woice  which  spoke  up  at  his 
very  elbow. 

"  Darby  O'Gill,"  it  said,  and  it  was  the  stone-cut- 
ter who  spoke,  "  do  you  hear  the  death  keen  ?  It  came 
last  night;  it'll  come  to-morrow  night  at  this  same 
hour,  and  thin — oh,  my  God !  " 

Darby  tried  to  answer,  but  he  could  only  stare  at 
the  white,  set  face  an'  the  sunken  eyes  of  the  man 
before  him. 

There  was,  too,  a  kind  of  fierce  quiet  in  the  way 
McCarthy  spoke  that  made  Darby  shiver. 

The  stone-cutter  wint  on  talkin'  the  same  as  though 
he  was  goin'  to  dhrive  a  bargain.  "  They  say  you're 
a  knowledgeable  man,  Darby  O'Gill,"  he  says,  "  an' 
that  on  a  time  you  spint  six  months  with  the  fairies. 
Now  I  make  you  this  fair,  square  offer,"  he  says,  lay- 
[223] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

ing  a  forefinger  in  the  palm  of  the  other  hand.  "  1 
have  fifty-three  pounds  that  Father  Cassidy's  keep- 
ing for  me.  Fifty-three  pounds,"  he  says  agin. 
"  An'  I  have  this  good  bit  of  a  farm  that  me  father 
was  born  on,  an'  his  father  was  born  on,  too,  and 
the  grandfather  of  him.  An'  I  have  the  grass  of 
seven  cows.  You  know  that.  Well,  I'll  give  it  all 
to  you,  all,  every  stiver  of  it,  if  you'll  only  go  out- 
side an'  dhrive  away  that  cursed  singer."  He  trew 
his  head  to  one  side  an'  looked  anxious  up  at  Darby. 

The  knowledgeable  man  racked  his  brains  for  some- 
thing to  speak,  but  all  he  could  say  was,  "  I've 
brought  you  a  bit  of  tay  from  the  wife,  Cormac." 

McCarthy  took  the  tay  with  unfeeling  hands,  an' 
wint  on  talking  in  the  same  dull  way.  Only  this  time 
there  came  a  hard  lump  in  his  throat  now  and  then 
that  he  stopped  to  swally. 

"  The  three  cows  I  have  go,  of  course,  with  the 
farm,"  says  he.  "  So  does  the  pony  an'  the  five  pigs. 
I  have  a  good  plough  an'  a  foine  harrow;  but  you 
must  lave  my  stone-cutting  tools,  so  little  Eileen  an* 
I  can  earn  our  way  wherever  we  go,  an'  it's  little  the 
crachure  ates  the  best  of  times." 

The  man's  eyes  were  dhry  an'  blazin' ;  no  doubt  his 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

mind  was  cracked  with  grief.  There  was  a  lump  in 
Darby's  throat,  too,  but  for  all  that  he  spoke  up 
scolding-like. 

"  Arrah,  talk  rayson,  man,"  he  says,  putting  two 
hands  on  Cormac's  chowlders ;  "  if  I  had  the  wit  or 
the  art  to  banish  the  banshee,  wouldn't  I  be  happy 
to  do  it  an'  not  a  fardin'  to  pay?  " 

"  Well,  then,"  says  Cormac,  scowling,  an'  pushin* 
Darby  to  one  side,  "  I'll  face  her  myself — I'll  face 
her  an'  choke  that  song  in  her  throat  if  Sattin  himself 
stood  at  her  side." 

With  those  words,  an'  before  Darby  could  sthop 
him,  the  stone-cutter  flung  open  the  door  an'  plunged 
out  into  the  night.  As  he  did  so  the  song  outside 
sthopped.  Suddenly  a  quick  splashing  of  feet,  hoarse 
cries,  and  shouts  gave  tidings  of  a  chase.  The  half- 
crazed  gossoon  had  stharted  the  banshee — of  that 
there  could  be  no  manner  of  doubt.  A  raymembrance 
of  the  awful  things  that  she  might  do  to  his  friend 
paythrefied  the  heart  of  Darby. 

Even  afther  these  cries  died  away  he  stood  listen- 
ling  a  full  minute,  the  sowls  of  his  two  brogues  glued 
to  the  floor.  The  only  sounds  he  heard  now  were  the 
deep  ticking  of  a  clock  and  a  cricket  that  chirped 
[225] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

slow  an'  solemn  on  the  hearth,  an'  from  somewhere 
outside  came  the  sorrowful  cry  of  a  whipperwill.  All 
at  once  a  thought  of  the  broken  bridge  an'  of  the 
black,  treacherous  waters  caught  him  like  the  blow  of 
a  whip,  an'  for  a  second  drove  from  his  mind  even 
the  fear  of  the  banshee. 

In  that  one  second,  an'  before  he  rayalised  it,  the 
lad  was  out  undher  the  dhripping  trees,  and  running 
for  his  life  toward  the  broken  foot-bridge.  The 
night  was  whirling  an'  beating  above  him  like  the 
flapping  of  thraymendous  wings,  but  as  he  ran  Darby 
thought  he  heard  above  the  rush  of  the  water  and 
through,  the  swish  of  the  wind  Cormac's  woice  calling 
him. 

The  friend  of  the  fairies  stopped  at  the  edge  of 
the  foot-bridge  to  listen.  Although  the  storm  had 
almost  passed,  a  spiteful  flare  of  lightning  lept  up 
now  an'  agin  out  of  the  western  hills,  an'  afther  it 
came  the  dull  rumble  of  distant  thunder;  the  water 
splashed  spiteful  against  the  bank,  and  Darby  saw 
that  seven  good  feet  of  the  bridge  had  been  torn  out 
of  its  centre,  laving  uncovered  that  much  of  the  black, 
deep  flood. 

He  stood  sthraining  his  eyes  an'  ears  in  wondhera- 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

tion,  for  now  the  woice  of  Cormac  sounded  from  the 
other  side  of  the  sthrame,  and  seemed  to  be  floating 
toward  him  through  the  field  over  the  path  Darby 
himself  had  just  thravelled.  At  first  he  was  mightily 
bewildhered  at  what  might  bring  Cormac  on  the  other 
side  of  the  brook,  till  all  at  once  the  murdhering 
scheme  of  the  banshee  burst  in  his  mind  like  a  gun- 
powdher  explosion. 

Her  plan  was  as  plain  as  day — she  meant  to 
dhrown  the  stone-cutter.  She  had  led  the  poor,  days- 
thracted  man  straight  from  his  own  door  down  to 
and  over  the  new  stone  bridge,  an'  was  now  daylud- 
herin'  him  on  the  other  side  of  the  sthrame,  back  agin 
up  the  path  that  led  to  the  broken  foot-bridge. 

In  the  glare  of  a  sudden  blinding  flash  from  the 
middle  of  the  sky  Darby  saw  a  sight  he'll  never  for- 
get till  the  day  he  dies.  Cormac,  the  stone-cutter, 
was  running  toward  the  death-trap,  his  bare  head 
trun  back,  an'  his  two  arrums  stretched  out  in  front 
of  him.  A  little  above  an'  just  out  of  raich  of  them, 
plain  an'  clear  as  Darby  ever  saw  his  wife  Bridget, 
was  the  misty  white  figure  of  a  woman.  Her  long, 
waving  hair  sthrealed  back  from  her  face,  an'  her 
face  was  the  face  of  the  dead. 
[227] 


THE      BANSHEE     S       COMB 

At  the  sight  of  her  Darby  thried  to  call  out  a  warn- 
ing, but  the  words  fell  back  into  his  throat.  Thin 
again  came  the  stifling  darkness.  He  thried  to  run 
away,  but  his  knees  failed  him,  so  he  turned  around 
to  face  the  danger. 

As  he  did  so  he  could  hear  the  splash  of  the  man's 
feet  in  the  soft  mud.  In  less  than  a  minute  Cormac 
would  be  sthruggling  in  the  wather.  At  the  thought 
Darby,  bracing  himself  body  and  sowl,  let  a  warn- 
ing howl  out  of  him. 

"  Hould  where  you  are ! "  he  shouted ;  "  she  wants 
to  drownd  ye — the  bridge  is  broke  in  the  middle !  " 
but  he  could  tell,  from  the  rushing  footsteps  an' 
from  the  hoarse  swelling  curses  which  came  nearer 
an'  nearer  every  second,  that  the  dayludhered  man, 
crazed  with  grief,  was  deaf  an'  blind  to  everything 
but  the  figure  that  floated  before  his  eyes. 

At  that  hopeless  instant  Bridget's  parting  words 
popped  into  Darby's  head. 

"  When  one  goes  on  an  errant  of  marcy  a  score  of 
God's  white  angels,  with  swoords  in  their  hands, 
march  before  an'  beside  an'  afther  him,  keeping  his 
path  free  from  danger." 

How  it  all  come  to  pass  he  could  never  rightly  tell, 
[228] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

for  he  was  like  a  man  in  a  dhrame,but  he  recollects  well 
standing  on  the  broken  ind  of  the  bridge,  Bridget's 
words  ringing  in  his  ears,  the  glistening  black  gulf 
benathe  his  feet,  an'  he  swinging  his  arrums  for  a 
jump.  Just  one  thought  of  herself  and  the  childher, 
as  he  gathered  himself  for  a  spring,  an'  then  he 
cleared  the  gap  like  a  bird. 

As  his  two  feet  touched  the  other  side  of  the  gap  a 
turrific  screech — not  a  screech,  ayther,  but  an  angry, 
frightened  shriek — almost  split  his  ears.  He  felt  a 
rush  of  cowld,  dead  air  agin  his  face,  and  caught  a 
whiff  of  newly  turned  clay  in  his  nosthrils ;  something 
white  stopped  quick  before  him,  an'  then,  with  a  sec- 
ond shriek,  it  shot  high  in  the  darkness  an'  disap- 
peared. Darby  had  frightened  the  wits  out  of  the 
banshee. 

The  instant  afther  the  two  men  were  clinched 
an'  rowling  over  an'  over  aich  other  down  the  mud- 
dy bank,  their  legs  splashing  as  far  as  the  knees 
in  the  dangerous  wather,  an'  McCarthy  raining 
wake  blows  on  the  knowledgeable  man's  head  an' 
breast. 

Darby  felt  himself  goin'  into  the  river.  Bits  of 
the  bank  caved  undher  him,  splashing  into  the  cur- 
[229] 


THE       BANSHEE      S       COMB 

rent,  an'  the  lad's  heart  began  clunking  up  an'  down 
like  a  churn-dash. 

"  Lave  off,  lave  off !  "  he  cried,  as  soon  as  he  could 
ketch  his  breath.  "  Do  you  take  me  for  the  banshee  ?  " 
says  he,  giving  a  dusperate  lurch  an'  rowling  himself 
on  top  of  the  other. 

"  Who  are  you,  then  ?  If  you're  not  a  ghost  you're 
the  divil,  at  any  rate,"  gasped  the  stone-cutter. 

"  Bad  luck  to  ye !  "  cried  Darby,  clasping  both 
arrums  of  the  haunted  man.  "  I'm  no  ghost,  let  lone 
the  divil — I'm  only  your  friend,  Darby  O'Gill." 

Lying  there,  breathing  hard,  they  stared  into  the 
faces  of  aich  other  a  little  space  till  the  poor  stone- 
cutter began  to  cry. 

"  Oh,  is  that  you,  Darby  O'Gill?  Where  is  the 
banshee?  Oh,  haven't  I  the  bad  fortune,"  he  says, 
sthriving  to  raise  himself. 

"  Rise  up,"  says  Darby,  lifting  the  man  to  his 
feet  an'  steadying  him  there.  The  stone-cutter  stared 
about  like  one  stunned  be  a  blow. 

"  I  don't  know  where  the  banshee  flew,  but  do  you 

go  back  to  Eileen  as  soon  as  you  can,"  says  the  friend 

of  the  fairies.     "  Not  that  way,  man  alive,"  he  says, 

as   Cormac   started  to  climb  the  foot-bridge,  "  it's 

[230] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

broke  in  the  middle;  go  down  an'  cross  the  stone 
bridge.  I'll  be  afther  you  in  a  minute,"  he 
says. 

Without  a  word,  meek  now  and  biddable  as  a  child, 
Cormac  turned,  an'  Darby  saw  him  hurry  away  into 
the  blackness. 

The  raysons  Darby  raymained  behind  were  two: 
first  an'  foremost,  he  was  a  bit  vexed  at  the  way  his 
clothes  were  muddied  an'  dhraggled,  an'  himself  had 
been  pounded  an'  hammered;  an'  second,  he  wanted 
to  think.  He  had  a  quare  cowld  feeling  in  his  mind 
that  something  was  wrong — a  kind  of  a  foreboding, 
as  one  might  say. 

As  he  stood  thinking  a  rayalisation  of  the  cay- 
lamity  sthruck  him  all  at  once  like  a  rap  on  the  jaw 
— he  had  lost  his  fine  brier  pipe.  The  lad  groaned 
as  he  began  the  anxious  sarch.  He  slapped  furiously 
at  his  chist  an'  side  pockets,  he  dived  into  his  throw- 
sers  and  greatcoat,  and  at  last,  sprawlin'  on  his  hands 
an'  feet  like  a  monkey,  he  groped  savagely  through 
the  wet,  sticky  clay. 

"  This  comes,"  says  the  poor  lad,  grumblin'  an* 
gropin',  "  of  pokin'  your  nose  into  other  people's 
business.  Hallo,  what's  this?  "  says  he,  straighten- 
[231] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

ing  himself.     "  'Tis  a  comb.    Be  the  powers  of  pew- 
ther,  'tis  the  banshee's  comb." 

An'  so  indade  it  was.  He  had  picked  up  a  goold 
comb  the  length  of  your  hand  an'  almost  the  width 
of  your  two  fingers.  About  an  inch  of  one  ind  was 
broken  off,  an'  dhropped  into  Darby's  palm.  With- 
out thinkin',  he  put  the  broken  bit  into  his  weskit 
pocket,  an'  raised  the  biggest  half  close  to  his  eyes, 
the  betther  to  view  it. 

"  May  I  never  see  sorrow,"  he  says,  "  if  the  banshee 
mustn't  have  dhropped  her  comb.  Look  at  that,  now. 
Folks  do  be  sayin'  that  'tis  this  gives  her  the  foine 
singing  voice,  bekase  the  comb  is  enchanted,"  he  says. 
"  If  that  sayin'  be  thrue,  it's  the  faymous  lad  I  am 
from  this  night.  I'll  thravel  from  fair  to  fair,  an' 
maybe  at  the  ind  they'll  send  me  to  parliament." 

With  these  worruds  he  lifted  his  caubeen  an'  stuck 
the  comb  in  the  top  tuft  of  his  hair. 

Begor,  he'd  no  sooner  guv  it  a  pull  than  a  sour, 
singing  feelin'  begun  at  the  bottom  of  his  stomick, 
an'  it  rose  higher  an'  higher.  When  it  raiched  his 
chist  he  was  just  going  to  let  a  bawl  out  of  himself 
only  that  he  caught  sight  of  a  thing  ferninst  him 
that  froze  the  marrow  in  his  bones. 
1232] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

He  gasped  short  an'  jerked  the  comb  out  of  his 
hair,  for  there,  not  tin  feet  away,  stood  a  dark, 
shadowy  woman,  tall,  thin,  an'  motionless,  laning  on 
a  crutch. 

During  a  breath  or  two  the  parsecuted  hayro  lost 
his  head  completely,  for  he  never  doubted  that  the 
banshee  had  changed  her  shuit  of  clothes  to  chase 
back  afther  him. 

The  first  clear  aymotion  that  rayturned  to  him  was 
to  fling  the  comb  on  the  ground  an'  make  a  boult  of 
it.  On  second  thought  he  knew  that  'twould  be  aisier 
to  bate  the  wind  in  a  race  than  to  run  away  from  the 
banshee. 

"  Well,  there's  a  good  Tipperary  man  done  for 
this  time,"  groaned  the  knowledgeable  man,  "  unless 
in  some  way  I  can  beguile  her."  He  was  fishing  in 
his  mind  for  its  civilist  worrud  when  the  woman  spoke 
up,  an'  Darby's  heart  jumped  with  gladness  as  he 
raycognised  the  cracked  voice  of  Sheelah  Maguire, 
the  spy  for  the  fairies. 

"  The  top  of  the  avenin'  to  you,  Darby  O'Gill," 

says  Sheelah,  peering  at  him  from  undher  her  hood, 

the   two   eyes   of  her   glowing  like   tallow  candles; 

amn't   I   kilt   with   a-stonishment   to   see    you  here 

[233] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

alone  this  time  of  the  night,"  says  the  ould 
witch. 

Now,  the  clever  man  knew  as  well  as  though  he 
had  been  tould,  when  Sheelah  said  thim  worruds,  that 
the  banshee  had  sent  her  to  look  for  the  comb,  an' 
his  heart  grew  bould;  but  he  answered  her  polite 
enough,  "  Why,  thin,  luck  to  ye,  Misthress  Maguire, 
ma'am,"  he  says,  bowing  grand,  "  sure,  if  you're  kilt 
with  a-stonishment,  amn't  I  sphlit  with  inkerdoolity 
to  find  yourself  mayandherin'  in  this  lonesome  place 
on  Halloween  night." 

Sheelah  hobbled  a  step  or  two  nearer,  an'  whus- 
pered-  confaydential. 

"  I  was  wandherin'  hereabouts  only  this  morning," 
she  says,  "  an'  I  lost  from  me  hair  a  goold  comb — 
one  that  I've  had  this  forty  years.  Did  ye  see  such 
a  thing  as  that,  agra?  "  An'  her  two  eyes  blazed. 

"  Faix,  I  dunno,"  says  Darby,  putting  his  two 
arrums  behind  him.  "  Was  it  about  the  length  of 
ye're  hand  an'  the  width  of  ye're  two  fingers  ?  "  he 
axed. 

"  It  was,"  says  she,  thrusting  out  a  withered  paw. 

"  Thin  I  didn't  find  it,"  says  the  tantalising  man. 
"  But  maybe  I  did  find  something  summillar,  only 
[234] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

'twasn't  yours  at  all,  but  the  banshee's,"  he  says, 
chuckling. 

Whether  the  hag  was  intentioned  to  welt  Darby 
with  her  staff,  or  whether  she  was  only  liftin'  it  for 
to  make  a  sign  of  enchantment  in  the  air,  will  never 
be  known,  but  whatsomever  she  meant  the  hayro 
doubled  his  fists  an'  squared  off;  at  that  she  lowered 
the  stick,  an'  broke  into  a  shrill,  cackling  laugh. 

"  Ho,  ho ! "  she  laughed,  houldin'  her  sides,  "  but 
aren't  ye  the  bould,  distinguishable  man.  Becourse 
'tis  the  banshee's  comb ;  how  well  ye  knew  it !  Be  the 
same  token  I'm  sint  to  bring  it  away ;  so  make  haste 
to  give  it  up,  for  she's  hiding  an'  waiting  for  me 
down  at  Chartres'  mill.  Aren't  you  the  courageous 
blaggard,  to  grabble  at  her,  an'  thry  to  ketch  her. 
Sure,  such  a  thing  never  happened  before,  since  the 
worruld  began,"  says  Sheelah. 

The  idee  that  the  banshee  was  hiding  an'  af  eared  to 
face  him  was  great  news  to  the  hayro.  But  he  only 
tossed  his  head  an'  smiled  shuparior  as  he  made  an- 
swer. 

"  'Tis  yourself  that  knows  well,  Sheelah  Maguire, 
ma'am,"  answers  back  the  proud  man,  slow  an'  day- 
liberate,  "  that  whin  one  does  a  favour  for  an  un- 
[235] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

earthly  spirit  he  may  daymand  for  pay  the  favours 
of  three  such  wishes  as  the  spirit  has  power  to  give. 
The  worruld  knows  that.  Now  I'll  take  three  good 
wishes,  such  as  the  banshee  can  bestow,  or  else  I'll 
carry  the  goolden  comb  straight  to  Father  Cassidy. 
The  banshee  hasn't  goold  nor  wor'ly  goods,  as  the 
sayin'  is,  but  she  has  what  suits  me  betther." 

This  cleverness  angered  the  fairy-woman  so  she 
set  in  to  abuse  and  to  frighten  Darby.  She  bally- 
ragged,  she  browbate,  she  trajooced,  she  threatened, 
but  'twas  no  use.  The  bould  man  hildt  firm,  till  at 
last  she  promised  him  the  favours  of  the  three  wishes. 

"  First  an'  foremost,"  says  he,  "  I'll  want  her 
never  to  put  her  spell  on  me  or  any  of  my  kith  an' 
kin." 

"  That  wish  she  gives  you,  that  wish  she  grants 
you,  though  it'll  go  sore  agin  the  grain,"  snarled 
Sheelah. 

"  Then,"  says  Darby,  "  my  second  wish  is  that  the 
black  spell  be  taken  from  Eileen  McCarthy." 

Sheelah  flusthered  about  like  an  angry  hin. 
"  Wouldn't  something  else  do  as  well?  "  she  says. 

"  I'm  not  here  to  argify,"  says  Darby,  swingin' 
back  an'  forrud  on  his  toes. 

[236] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

"  Bad  scran  to  you,"  says  Sheelah.  "  I'll  have  to 
go  an'  ask  the  banshee  herself  about  that.  Don't  stir 
from  that  spot  till  I  come  back." 

You  may  believe  it  or  not,  but  with  that  sayin'  she 
bent  the  head  of  her  crutch  well  forward,  an'  before 
Darby's  very  face  she  trew — savin'  your  presence — 
one  leg  over  the  stick  as  though  it  had  been  a  horse, 
an'  while  one  might  say  Jack  Robinson  the  crutch 
riz  into  the  air  an'  lifted  her,  an'  she  went  sailing 
out  of  sight. 

Darby  was  still  gaping  an'  gawpin'  at  the  dark- 
ness where  she  disappeared  whin — whisk!  she  was 
back  agin  an'  dismountin'  at  his  side. 

"  The  luck  is  with  you,"  says  she,  spiteful.  "  That 
wish  I  give,  that  wish  I  grant  you.  You'll  find  seven 
crossed  rushes  undher  McCarthy's  door-step ;  uncross 
them,  put  them  in  fire  or  in  wather,  an'  the  spell  is 
lifted.  Be  quick  with  the  third  wish — out  with  it !  " 

"  I'm  in  a  more  particular  hurry  about  that  than 
you  are,"  says  Darby.  "  You  must  find  me  my  brier 
pipe,"  says  he. 

"  You  omadhaun,"  sneered  the  fairy-woman,  "  'tis 
sthuck  in  the  band  of  your  hat,  where  you  put  it  when 
you  left  your  own  house  the  night.  No,  no,  not  in 
[237] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

front,"  she  says,  as  Darby  put  up  his  hand  to  feel. 
"  It's  stuck  in  the  back.  Your  caubeen's  twishted," 
she  says. 

Whilst  Darby  was  standing  with  the  comb  in  one 
hand  an'  the  pipe  in  the  other,  smiling  daylighted, 
the  comb  was  snatched  from  his  fingers  and  he  got 
a  welt  in  the  side  of  the  head  from  the  crutch.  Look- 
ing up,  he  saw  Sheelah  tunty  feet  in  the  air,  headed 
for  Chartres'  mill,  an'  she  cacklin'  an'  screechin'  with 
laughter.  Rubbing  his  sore  head  an'  mutthering  un- 
pious  words  to  himself,  Darby  started  for  the  new 
bridge. 

In  less  than  no  time  afther,  he  had  found  the  seven 
crossed  rushes  undher  McCarthy's  door-step,  an'  had 
flung  them  into  the  stream.  Thin,  without  knock- 
ing, he  pushed  open  McCarthy's  door  an'  tiptoed 
quietly  in. 

Cormac  was  kneelin'  beside  the  bed  with  his  face 
buried  in  the  pillows,  as  he  was  when  Darby  first  saw 
him  that  night.  But  Eileen  was  sleeping  as  sound 
as  a  child,  with  a  sweet  smile  on  her  lips.  Heavy 
pursperation  beaded  her  forehead,  showing  that  the 
faver  was  broke. 

Without  disturbing  aither  of  them  our  hayro 
[238] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

picked  up  the  package  of  tay  from  the  floor,  put  it 
on  the  dhresser,  an'  with  a  glad  heart  sthole  out  of 
the  house  an'  closed  the  door  softly  behind  him. 

Turning  toward  Chartres'  mill  he  lifted  his  hat 
an'  bowed  low.  "  Thank  you  kindly,  Misthress  Ban- 
shee," he  says.  "  'Tis  well  for  us  all  I  found  your 
comb  this  night.  Public  or  private,  I'll  always  say 
this  for  you — you're  a  woman  of  your  worrud,"  he 
says. 


[239] 


CHAPTER    III 

THE   GHOSTS   AT   CHARTRES'   MILL 

For  a  little  while  afther  Darby  O'Gill  sint  the 
banshee  back  her  comb,  there  was  the  duckens  to  pay 
in  that  townland.  Aich  night  came  stormier  than 
the  other.  An'  the  rain — never,  since  Noey  the 
Phcenaycian  histed  sail  for  Arrayat  was  there  prom- 
ised such  a  daynudherin'  flood.  (In  one  way  or  an- 
other we're  all,  even  the  Germin  min  an'  the  Fardowns, 
dayscendints  of  the  Phoenaycians. ) 

Even  at  that  the  foul  weather  was  the  laste  of 
the  throuble — the  counthry-side  was  ha'nted.  Every 
ghost  must  have  left  Croaghmah  as  soon  as  twilight 
to  wander  abroad  in  the  lonesome  places.  The  farm- 
yards and  even  the  village  itself  was  not  safe. 

One  morning,  just  before  cock-crow,  big  Joey 
Hooligan,  the  smith,  woke  up  sudden,  with  a  tumble 
feeling  that  some  gashly  person  was  lookin'  in  at 
him  through  the  windy.  Startin'  up  flurried  in  bed, 
what  did  he  see  but  two  eyes  that  were  like  burnin' 
coals  of  fire,  an'  they  peerin'  study  into  the  room. 
[240] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

One  glance  was  enough.  Givin'  a  thraymendous 
gasp,  Joey  dhropped  back  quakin'  into  the  bed,  an' 
covered  his  head  with  the  bed-clothes.  How  long 
afther  that  the  two  heegous  eyes  kept  starin'  at  the 
bed  Joey  can't  rightly  tell,  for  he  never  uncovered 
his  head  nor  stirred  hand  nor  foot  agin  till  his  wife 
Nancy  had  lighted  the  fire  an'  biled  the  stirabout. 

Indade,  it  was  a  good  month  afther  that  before 
Joey  found  courage  enough  to  get  up  first  in  the 
morning  so  as  to  light  the  fire.  An'  on  that  same 
mimorable  mornin'  he  an'  Nancy  lay  in  bed  argyfin' 
about  it  till  nearly  noon — the  poor  man  was  that 
frightened. 

The  avenin'  afther  Hooligan  was  wisited  Mrs. 
Norah  Clancy  was  in  the  stable  milking  her  cow — 
Cornaylia  be  name — whin  sudden  she  spied  a  tall, 
sthrange  man  in  a  topcoat  standin'  near  the  stable 
door  an'  he  with  his  back  turned  toward  her.  At 
first  she  thought  it  a  shadow,  but  it  a-ppeared  a  thrifle 
thicker  than  a  shadow,  so,  a  little  afeared,  she  called 
out :  "  God  save  you  kindly,  sir !  " 

At  that  the  shadow  turned  a  dim,  grey  face  toward 
her,  so  full  of  rayproachful  woe  that  Mrs.  Clancy  let 
a  screech  out  of  her  an'  tumbled  over  with  the  pail  of 


THE    BANSHEE'S    COMB 

milk  betwixt  her  knees.  She  lay  on  her  back  in  the 
spilt  milk  unconscionable  for  full  fufteen  minutes. 

The  next  night  a  very  rayliable  tinker,  named 
Bothered  Bill  Donahue,  while  wandherin'  near  Char- 
tres'  ruined  mill,  came  quite  accidental  upon  tunty 
skillingtons,  an'  they  colloguing  an'  confabbing  to- 
gether on  the  flat  roof  of  the  mill-shed. 

But  worst  of  all,  an'  something  that  sthruck  deeper 
terror  into  every  heart,  was  the  news  that  six  different 
persons  at  six  different  places  had  met  with  the  tur- 
rible  phantom  coach,  the  Costa  Bower. 

Peggy  Collins,  a  wandherin'  beggar  woman  from 
the  west  counthry,  had  a  wild  chase  for  it;  an'  if 
she'd  been  a  second  later  raichin'  the  chapel  steps  an' 
laying  her  hand  on  the  church-door  it  would  have  had 
her  sure. 

Things  got  on  so  that  afther  dark  people  only 
wentured  out  in  couples  or  in  crowds,  an'  in  pint 
of  piety  that  parish  was  growin'  into  an  example  an' 
patthron  for  the  naytion. 

But  of  all  the  persons  whom  thim  con-ditions  com- 
plicayted  you  may  be  sure  that  the  worst  harried 
an'  implicayted  was  the  knowledgeable  man,  Darby 
O'Gill. 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

There  was  a  weight  on  his  mind,  but  he  couldn't 
tell  why,  an'  a  dhread  in  his  heart  that  had  no  ray- 
sonable  foundaytion.  He  moped  an'  he  moothered. 
Some  of  the  time  he  felt  like  singin'  doleful  ballads 
an'  death  keens,  an'  the  rest  of  the  time  he  could 
hardly  keep  from  cryin'.  His  appetite  left  him,  but 
what  confuged  him  worse  than  all  the  rest  was  the 
fondness  that  had  come  over  him  for  hard  worruk — 
cuttin'  turf  an'  diggin'  petaties,  an'  things  like  that. 

To  make  matters  more  onsociable,  his  friend,  Brian 
Connors,  the  King  of  the  Fairies,  hadn't  showed  a  nose 
inside  Darby's  door  for  more  than  a  fortnit;  so  the 
knowledgeable  man  had  no  one  to  adwise  with. 

In  thim  dismal  sarcumstances  Darby,  growin'  dus- 
perate,  harnessed  the  pony  Clayopathra  one  morning 
and  dhrove  up  to  Clonmel  to  see  the  Masther  Doctor 
— the  raynowned  McNamara.  Be  this  you  may  know 
how  bad  he  felt,  for  no  one,  till  he  was  almost  at  the 
pint  of  dissolation,  ever  wint  to  that  crass,  brow- 
batin'  ould  codger. 

So,  loath  enough  was  our  own  hayro  to  face  him, 
an'  hard-hearted  enough  was  the  welcome  the  crabbed 
little  docthor  hilt  out  to  Darby  whin  they  met. 

"  What  did  you  ate  for  breakwus  ?  "  the  physician 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

says,  peerin'  savage  from  undher  his  great  eyebrows 
at  Darby's  tongue. 

"  Only  a  bowl  of  stirabout,  an'  a  couple  of  petaties, 
an'  a  bit  of  bacon,  an'  a  few  eggs."  He  was  countin' 
on  his  fingers,  "  an' — an'  somethin'  or  other  I  forgot. 
Do  you  think  I'll  go  into  a  daycline,  Doctor,  agra  ?  " 

"  Hump !  ugh !  ugh !  "  was  all  the  comfort  the 
sick  man  got  from  the  blinkin'  ould  blaggard.  But 
turnin'  imaget  to  his  medicine-table  the  surgent  be- 
gan studyin'  the  medicines.  There  was  so  much  of 
it  ferninst  him  he  might  have  give  a  gallon  an' 
never  missed  it.  There  was  one  foine  big  red  bottle 
in  particular  Darby  had  his  eye  on,  an'  thought  his 
dose  'ud  surely  come  out  of  that.  But  NcNamara 
turns  to  a  box  the  size  of  your  hat,  an'  it  filled  to  the 
top  with  little  white,  flat  pills.  Well,  the  stingy  ould 
rascal  counts  out  three  and,  handing  them  to  Darby, 
says :  "  Take  one  before  breakwus,  another  before  din- 
ner, an'  the  last  one  before  suppher,  an'  give  me  four 
silver  shillings,  an'  that'll  cure  ye,"  he  says. 

You  may  be  sure  that  Darby  biled  up  inside  with 

madness  at  the  onraysonableness  of  the  price  of  the 

pills,  but,  houlding  himself  in,  he  says,  very  cool  an' 

quite :  "  Will  you  write  me  out  a  rayceipt  for  the 

[244] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

money,  Doctor  McNamara,  if  you  plaze?  "  he  says. 
An',  whilst  the  ould  chayter  was  turned  to  the  writ- 
ing, be  the  hokey  if  our  hayro  didn't  half  fill  his 
pockets  with  pills  from  the  box.  By  manes  of  them, 
as  he  dhrove  along  home,  he  was  able  to  do  a  power 
of  good  to  the  neighbour  people  he  met  with  on  the 
road. 

Whin  you  once  get  in  the  habit  of  it  there's  no 
pleasure  in  life  which  ayquils  givin'  other  people 
medicine. 

Darby  ginerously  med  ould  Peggy  O'Callaghan 
take  six  of  the  little  round  things.  He  gave  a  swally 
to  half-witted  Red  Durgan,  an'  a  good  mouthful  to 
poor  sick  Eileen  McCarthy  (only  she  had  to  gulp 
them  whole,  poor  thing,  an'  couldn't  ate  them  as  the 
others  did — but  maybe  'twas  just  as  good).  An'  he 
gave  a  fistful  aich  to  Judy  Rafferty  an'  Dennis 
Hogan ;  an'  he  stood  handsome  thrate  to  a  sthranger, 
who,  the  minute  he  got  the  taste  well  intil  his  mouth, 
wanted  to  fight  Darby.  Howsumever,  the  two  only 
called  aich  other  hard  names  for  a  while,  then  Darby 
joggled  along,  doin*  good  an*  growin'  lighter- 
hearted  an'  merrier-minded  at  every  sthop  he  med. 
'Twas  this  way  with  him  till,  just  in  front  of  Mrs. 
[245] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

Kilcannon's,  who  should  he  see,  scratching  himself 
agin  the  wall,  but  Solomon,  an'  the  baste  lookin'  bit- 
ther  daynunciation  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye. 
Darby  turned  his  head,  ashamed  to  look  the  mis- 
thrayted  donkey  in  the  face.  An'  worse  still  nor  that, 
just  beyant  Solomon,  laning  agin  the  same  wall,  was 
Bothered  Bill  Donahue,  the  deef  tinker.  That  last 
sight  dashed  Darby  entirely,  for  he  knew  as  well  as 
if  he  had  been  tould  that  the  tinker  was  layin'  in  wait 
to  ride  home  with  him  for  a  night's  lodging. 

It  wasn't  that  Darby  objected  on  his  own  account 
to  takin'  him  home,  for  a  tinker  or  a  beggar-man, 
mind  you,  has  a  right,  the  worruld  over,  to  claim  a 
night's  lodgin'  an'  a  bit  to  ate  wherever  he  goes; 
an'  well,  these  honest  people  pay  for  it  in  the  gos- 
sip an'  news  they  furnish  at  the  fireside  an'  in  the 
good  rayport  of  your  family  they'll  spread  through 
the  counthry  aftherwards. 

Darby  liked  well  to  have  them  come,  but  through 
some  unknown  wakeness  in  her  char-ack-ther  Bridget 
hated  the  sight  of  them.  Worst  of  all,  she  hated 
Bothered  Bill.  She  even  went  so  far  as  to  say  that 
Bill  was  not  half  so  bothered  as  he  purtendid — that 
he  could  hear  well  enough  what  was  a-greeable  for 
[246] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

him  to  hear,  an'  that  he  was  deef  only  to  what  he 
didn't  like  to  listen  to. 

Well,  anyhow  there  was  the  tinker  in  the  road 
waitin'  for  the  cart  to  come  up,  an'  for  a  while  what 
to  do  Darby  didn't  well  know. 

He  couldn't  rayf use  one  who  axed  food  to  ate  or 
shelther  for  a  wandherer's  four  bones  during  the 
night  (that  would  be  a  sin,  besides  it  would  bring 
bad  luck  upon  the  house),  an'  still  he  had  a  mor- 
tial  dislike  to  go  agin  Bridget  in  this  purtick'ler — 
she'd  surely  blame  him  for  bringin'  Bothered  Bill 
home. 

But  at  length  an'  at  last  he  daycided,  with  a  sigh, 
to  put  the  whole  case  before  Bill  an'  then  let  him 
come  or  stay. 

Whilst  he  was  meditaytin'  on  some  way  of  convey- 
in'  the  news  that'd  be  complaymintary  to  the  tinker, 
an'  that'd  elevayte  instid  of  smashing  that  thrav- 
eller's  sinsitiveness,  Bill  came  up  to  the  cart. 

"  The  top  iv  the  day  to  you,  dacint  man,"  he  says. 
"  'Tis  gettin'  toward  dark  an'  I'll  go  home  with  ye 
for  the  night,  I'm  thinkin',"  says  he.  The  tinker, 
like  most  people  who  are  hard  of  hearin',  roared  as 
though  the  listener  was  bothered. 
[247] 


THE      BANSHEES      COMB 

Darby  laid  down  the  lines  an'  hilt  out  a  handful 
of  the  little  medicines. 

"  There's  nothin'  the  matther  with  me,  so  why 
should  I  ate  thim?  "  cried  Bill. 

"  They're  the  best  thing  in  the  worruld  for  that," 
says  Darby,  forcing  them  into  Bill's  mouth.  "  You 
don't  know  whin  you'll  nade  thim,"  he  says,  shoutin'. 
"  It's  betther  meet  sickness  half-way,"  says  he,  "  than 
to  wait  till  it  finds  you." 

And  thin,  whilst  Bill,  with  an  open  hand  aginst 
his  ear,  was  chawin'  the  pills  an'  lookin'  up  plaintiff 
into  Darby's  face,  the  knowledgeable  man  wint  on  in 
a  blandishin'  way  to  pint  out  the  sitiwation. 

"  You  see,  'tis  this  away,  Wullum,"  he  says.  "  It's 
only  too  daylighted  I'd  be  to  take  you  home  with  me. 
Indade,  Bridget  herself  has  wondherful  admiraytion 
for  you  in  an  ord'nary  way,"  says  he.  "  She  believes 
you're  a  raymarkable  man  intirely,"  he  says,  day- 
plomatic,  "  only  she  thinks  you're  not  clane,"  says  he. 

The  tinker  must  have  misundherstood  altogether, 
for  he  bawled,  in  rayply,  "  Wisha  good  luck  to  her," 
he  says,  "  an'  ain't  I  glad  to  have  so  foine  opinion 
from  so  foine  a  woman,"  says  he.  "  But  sure,  all  the 
women  notice  how  tidy  I  am,  an'  that's  why  they  like 
[248] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

to  have  me  in  the  house.  But  we  best  be  movin',"  says 
he,  coolly  dhropping  his  bags  of  tools  intil  the  cart, 
"  for  the  night's  at  hand,  an'  a  black  an'  stormy  one 
it'll  be,"  says  Bill. 

He  put  a  foot  onto  the  wheel  of  the  cart.  As  he 
did  so  Darby,  growin'  very  red  in  the  face,  pressed  a 
shilling  into  the  tinker's  hand.  "  Go  into  Mrs.  Kil- 
cannon's  for  the  night,  Wullum,"  he  says,  "  an'  come 
'to  us  for  your  breakwus,  an'  your  dinner  an'  maybe 
your  supper,  me  good  fellow,"  says  he. 

But  the  deef  man  only  pocketed  the  shillin'  an' 
clambered  up  onto  the  sate  beside  Darby.  "  Faith, 
the  shillin's  welcome,"  he  sa^  s ;  "  but  I'd  go  to  such  a 
commodious  house  as  yours  any  time,  Darby  O'Gill, 
without  a  fardin's  pay,"  says  he,  pattin'  Darby 
kindly  on  the  back.  But  Darby's  jaw  was  hangin' 
for  the  loss  of  the  shillin'  right  on  top  of  the  unwel- 
come wisitor. 

"  We'd  betther  hurry  on,"  says  the  tinker,  light- 
ing his  pipe ;  "  for  af ther  sundown  who  knows  what'll 
catch  up  with  us  on  the  road,"  says  he. 

Sure,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  make  the  best 
of  a  bad  bargain,  an'  the  two  went  on  together, 
Darby  gloomy  an'  vexed  an'  the  deef  man  solemn  but 
[249] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

comfortable  till  they  were  almost  at  McHale's  bridge. 
Then  the  tinker  spoke  up. 

"  Did  ye  hear  the  black  threats  Sheelah  Maguire 
is  makin'  agin  you?  "  he  says. 

"  No,"  says  Darby ;  "  what  in  the  worruld  ails 
her?  "  says  he. 

"  Bless  the  one  of  me  knows,"  says  the  tinker,  "  nor 
anybody  else  for  that  matther.  Only  that  last 
Halloween  night  Sheelah  Maguire  was  bate  black  an' 
blue  from  head  to  foot,  an'  she  lays  the  raysponsibility 
on  you,  Darby,"  he  says. 

The  knowledgeable  man  had  his  mouth  open  for  a 
question  whin  who  should  go  runnin'  acrost  the  road 
in  front  of  them  but  Neddy  McHale  himself,  an'  his 
arrum  full  of  sticks.  "  Go  back !  go  back ! "  cries 
Neddy,  wavin'  an  arrum  wild.  "  The  bridge's  but- 
ther-worruks  are  washed  out  be  the  flood  an'  McDon- 
ald's bridge  is  down,  too,  so  yez  must  go  around  be 
the  mill,"  says  Neddy. 

Now  here  was  bitther  news  for  ye!  'Twas  two 
miles  out  of  the  way  to  go  be  Chartres'  mill,  an'  do 
the  best  possible  they'd  be  passing  that  ha'nted  place 
in  the  pitch  dark. 

"  Faith,  an'  I've  had  worse  luck  than  in  pickin* 
[250] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

you  up  this  night,  Bothered  Bill  Donahue,"  says 
Darby,  "  for  it's  loath  I'd  be  to  go  alone " 

He  turned  to  speak  just  in  time,  for  the  tinker 
had  gathered  up  his  bag  an'  had  put  his  right  foot 
on  the  cart-wheel,  purparin'  for  a  jump.  Darby 
clutched  the  lad  be  the  back  of  his  neck  an'  joulted 
him  back  hard  into  the  sate. 

"  Sit  still,  Wullum,  till  we  raich  me  own  house, 
avourneen,"  he  says,  sarcastic,  "  for  if  ye  thry  that 
move  agin  I'll  not  lave  a  whole  bone  in  your  body. 
I'll  never  let  it  be  said,"  he  says,  lofty,  "  that  I  turned 
one  who  axed  me  for  a  night's  lodgin'  from  me  door," 
he  says.  An'  as  he  spoke  he  wheeled  the  cart  quick 
around  in  the  road. 

"  Lave  me  down,  Misther  O'Gill !  I  think  I'll  stop 
the  night  with  Neddy  McHale,"  says  Wullum,  shiv- 
erin'.  "  Bridget  don't  think  I'm  clane,"  says  he,  as 
the  pony  started  off. 

"Who  tould  ye  that,  I'd  like  to  know?"  shouted 
Darby,  growin'  fierce ;  "  who  dared  say  that  of  ye  ? 
You're  bothered,  Wullum,  you  know,  an*  so  you  mis- 
thrupit  langwidge,"  he  says. 

But  Bill  only  cowered  down  sulky,  an'  the  pony 
galloped  down  the  side  lane  intil  the  woods,  strivin' 
£251] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

to  bate  the  rain  an'  the  darkness.  But  the  elements 
were  too  swift-footed,  an'  the  rain  came  down  an'  all 
the  shadows  met  together,  an'  the  dusk  whirled  quick 
intil  blackness  before  they  raiched  the  gloomy  hill. 

Ever  and  always  Chartres'  mill  was  a  misfortunit 
place.  It  broke  the  heart  of  an'  runed  and  kilt  the 
man  who  built  it ;  an'  itself  was  a  rune  these  last  tunty 
years. 

Many  was  the  wild  tale  known  throughout  the 
counthry-side  of  the  things  that  had  been  seen  an' 
heard  at  that  same  mill,  but  the  tale  that  kept  Darby 
an'  the  tinker  unwelcome  company  as  the  pony  throt- 
ted  along  was  what  had  happened  there  a  couple  of 
years  before.  One  night,  as  Paddy  Carroll  was  dhnv- 
in'  past  the  gloomy  ould  place,  his  best  ear  cocked  an' 
his  weather  eye  open  for  ghosts,  there  came  sudden 
from  the  mill  three  agonised  shrieks  for  help. 

Thinkin'  'twas  the  spirits  that  were  in  it  Paddy 
whipped  up  his  pony  an'  hurried  on  his  way.  But 
the  next  morning,  misdoubtin'  whether  'twasn't  a  hu- 
man woice,  afther  all,  he  had  heard,  Paddy  gathered 
up  a  dozen  of  the  neighbours  an'  went  back  to  in- 
westigate.  What  did  they  find  in  one  of  the  upper 
rooms  but  a  peddler,  lying  flat  on  the  floor,  his  pack 
[262] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

ramsacked  an'  he  dead  as  a  door-nail.  'Twas  his  cries 
Paddy  had  heard  as  the  poor  thraveller  was  bein' 
murdhered. 

Since  that  time  a  dozen  people  passing  the  mill  at 
night  had  heard  the  cries  of  the  same  peddler,  an' 
had  seen  the  place  blazin'  with  lights.  So,  that  now 
no  one  who  could  help  it  ever  alone  passed  the  mill 
afther  dark. 

At  the  hill  this  side  of  that  place  the  pony  slowed 
down  to  a  walk ;  nayther  coaxin'  nor  batin'  'd  in j  ooce 
the  baste  to  mend  his  steps.  The  horse'd  stop  a  little 
an'  wait,  an'  thin  it'd  go  on  thrimblin'. 

They  could  all  see  the  dim  outlines  of  the  empty 
mill  glowerin'  up  at  them,  an'  the  nearer  they  came 
the  more  it  glowered,  an'  the  faster  their  two  hearts 
bate.  Half-way  down  the  hill  an  ould  sign-post 
pinted  the  way  with  its  broken  arm;  just  bey  ant  that 
the  bridge,  an'  afther  that  the  long,  level  road  an' — 
salwaytion. 

But  at  the  sign-post  Clayopathra  sthopped  dead 
still,  starin'  into  some  bushes  just  beyant.  She  was 
shakin'  an'  snortin'  and  her  limbs  thrimblin'. 

At  the  same  time,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  was  no  worse 
off  than  the  two  Christians  sittin'  in  the  cart  behint 
[253] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

her,  only  they  were  not  so  daymonsthray-ta-tive  about 
it.  Small  blame  to  the  lads  at  that,  for  they  were 
both  sure  an'  sartin  that  lurking  in  the  black  shadows 
was  a  thing  waiting  to  freeze  their  hearts  with  terror, 
an'  maybe  to  put  a  mark  on  thim  that  they'd  carry  to 
their  graves. 

Afther  coaxing  Clayopathra  an'  raysonin'  with  her 
in  wain,  Darby,  his  knees  knocking,  turned  to  the 
tinker,  an'  in  the  excitement  of  the  events  forgettin' 
that  Bill  was  deef,  whuspered,  as  cool  an'  as  aisy-like 
as  he  could: 

"  Would  ye  mind  doin'  me  the  favour  of  steppin' 
out,  avick,  an'  seein'  what's  in  that  road  ahead  of  us, 
Wullum?" 

But  Bothered  Bill  answered  back  at  once,  just  as 
cool  an'  aisy: 

"  I  would  mind,  Darby,"  he  says ;  "  an'  I  wouldn't 
get  down,  asthore,  to  save  you  an'  your  family  an'  all 
their  laneyal  daysindents  from  the  gallus-rope,"  says 
he. 

"  I  thought  you  was  deef,"  says  Darby,  growin' 
disrayspectful. 

"  This  is  no  time  for  explaynations,"  says  Wullum. 
"  An'  I  thought  meself,"  he  wint  on,  turning  his 
[254] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

chowlder  on  Darby,  "  that  I  was  in  company  with  a 
brave  man ;  but  I'm  sorry  to  find  that  I'm  riding  with 
no  betther  than  an'  outrageous  coward,"  says  he,  bit- 
ther. 

Whilst  Wullum  was  sayin'  them  wexatious  worruds 
Darby  stood  laning  out  of  the  cart  with  a  hand  on 
Clayopathra's  back  an'  a  foot  on  the  shaft,  goggling 
his  eyes  an'  sthrivin'  to  pierce  the  darkness  at  the 
pony's  head.  Without  turnin'  round  he  med  answer : 

"  Is  that  the  way  it  is  with  you,  Wullum?  "  he 
says,  still  sarcastic.  "  Faix,  thin  ye'll  have  that  com- 
plaint no  longer,  for  if  yez  don't  climb  down  this 
minute  I'll  trow  you  bag  an'  baggage  in  the  ditch," 
he  says ;  "  so  get  out  immaget,  darlint,  or  I'll  trow  you 
out,"  says  he. 

The  worruds  weren't  well  out  of  his  mouth  whin 
the  owdacious  tinker  whipped  out  his  scissors  an'  sint 
the  sharp  pint  half  an  inch  into  Clayopathra's  flank. 
Clayopathra  jumped,  an'  Darby,  legs  an'  arrums  fly- 
ing, took  a  back  sommerset  that  he  never  ayquiled  in 
his  supplest  days,  for  it  landed  him  flat  agin  the 
hedge;  an'  the  leap  Clayopathra  gave,  if  she  could 
only  keep  it  up'd  fit  her  for  the  Curragh  races. 
An'  keep  it  up  for  a  surprisin'  while  she  did,  at  any 
[255] 


THE       BANSHEES       COMB 

rate,  for  as  the  knowledgeable  man  scrambled  to  his 
feet  he  could  hear  her  furious  gallop  a  hundhred 
yards  down  the  road. 

"  Stop  her,  Wullum  avourneen,  I  was  only  jok- 
ing !  Come  back,  ye  shameless  rogue  of  the  univarse, 
or  I'll  have  ye  thransported ! "  he  shouted,  rushing  a 
few  steps  afther  them.  But  the  lash  of  the  whip  on 
Clayopathra's  sides  was  the  only  answer  Wullum  sint 
back  to  him. 

To  purshue  was  useless,  so  the  daysarted  man 
slacked  down  to  a  throt.  I'd  hate  bad  to  have  befall 
me  any  one  of  the  hundhred  things  Darby  wished 
aloud  then  an'  there  for  Wullum. 

Well,  at  all  events,  there  was  Darby,  his  head  bint, 
plodding  along  through  the  storm,  an'  a  fiercer  storm 
than  the  wind  or  rain  ever  med  kept  ragin'  in  his 
heart. 

Only  that  through  the  storm  in  his  mind  there 
flared  now  an'  thin  quivers  of  fear  an'  turpitation 
that  sometimes  hastened  his  steps  an'  thin  again 
falthered  thim.  Howsumever,  taking  it  all  in  all,  he 
was  making  good  pro-gress,  an'  had  got  to  the  bunch 
of  willows  at  the  near  side  of  the  mill  whin  one  par- 
ticular raymembrance  of  Sheelah  Maguire  and  of  the 
[256] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

banshee's  comb  halted  the  lad  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  an'  sint  him  fumblin'  with  narvous  hands  in  his 
weskit  pocket.  There,  sure  enough,  was  the  piece  of 
the  banshee's  comb.  The  broken  bit  had  lain  forgot- 
ten in  the  lad's  pocket  since  Halloween;  an'  now,  as 
he  felt  it  there  next  his  thumping  heart  an'  buried 
undher  pipefuls  of  tobaccy,  the  rayalisation  almost 
floored  him  with  consthernaytion.  All  rushed  over  his 
sowl  like  a  flood. 

Who  else  could  it  be  but  the  banshee  that  guv 
Sheelah  Maguire  that  turrible  batin'  mintioned  by  the 
tinker?  An'  what  was  that  bating  for,  unless  the 
banshee  a-ccused  Sheelah  of  stealing  the  ind  of  the 
comb?  An',  mother  of  Moses!  'Twas  sarchin'  for 
that  same  bit  of  comb  it  was  that  brought  the  ghosts 
up  from  Croaghmah  an'  med  the  whole  townland 
ha'nted. 

Was  ever  such  a  dangerous  purdicament!  Here 
he  was,  with  ghosts  in  the  threes  above  him  an'  in 
the  hedges,  an'  maybe  lookin'  over  his  chowlder,  an* 
all  of  them  sarchin'  for  the  bit  of  enchanted  comb 
that  was  in  his  own  pocket.  If  they  should  find  out 
where  it  lay  what  awful  things  they  would  do  to  him. 
Sure,  they  might  call  up  the  Costa  Bower  an'  fling 
[257] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

him  into  it,  an'  that  'ud  be  the  last  ever  heard  of 
Darby  O'Gill  in  the  land  of  the  livin'. 

With  thim  wild  thoughts  jumpin'  up  an'  down  in 
his  mind  he  stood  in  the  dark  an'  in  the  rain,  gawmin' 
vacant  over  toward  the  shadowy  ruin.  An'  he  bein' 
much  agitayted,  the  lad,  without  thinkin',  did  the 
foolishest  thing  a  man  in  his  sitiwaytion  could  well 
a-complish — he  took  out  of  his  pocket  the  enchanted 
sliver  of  goold  an'  hildt  it  to  his  two  eyes  for  a  look. 

The  consequences  came  suddin',  for  as  he  stuck  it 
back  into  the  tobaccy  there  burst  from  the  darkness 
of  the  willows  the  hallowest,  most  blood-curdlin'  laugh 
that  ever  fell  on  mortial  ears.  "  Ho !  ho !  ho !  "  it 
laughed. 

The  knowledgeable  man's  hair  lifted  the  hat  from 
his  head. 

An'  as  if  the  laugh  wasn't  enough  to  scatther  the 
wits  of  anyone,  at  the  same  instant  it  sounded,  an' 
quick  as  a  flash,  every  windy  in  the  ould  mill  blazed 
with  a  fierce  blue  light.  Every  batthered  crack  an' 
crevice  seemed  bursting  with  the  glare  for  maybe  the 
space  of  ten  seconds,  an'  then,  oh,  Millia  Murther! 
there  broke  from  the  upper  floor  three  of  the  bitter- 
est shrieks  of  pain  an'  terror  ever  heard  in  this 
[258] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

worruld;  an',  with  the  last  cry,  the  mill  quinched 
itself  into  darkness  agin  an'  stood  lonely  an'  gloomy 
an'  silent  as  before.  The  rain  patthered  down  on  the 
road  an'  the  wind  swished  mournful  in  the  threes,  but 
there  was  no  other  sound. 

The  knowledgeable  man  turned  to  creep  away  very 
soft  an'  quiet ;  but  as  he  did  a  monsthrous  black  thing 
that  looked  like  a  dog  without  a  head  crawled  slowly 
out  from  the  willows  where  the  turrible  laugh  had 
come  from,  an'  it  crept  into  the  gloom  of  the  oppo- 
site hedge  an'  there  it  stood,  waitin'  for  Darby  to 
dhraw  near. 

But  the  knowledgeable  man  gave  a  leap  backwards, 
an'  as  he  did  from  the  darkness  just  behindt  him 
swelled  a  deep  sigh  that  was  almost  a  groan.  From 
the  hedge  to  his  right  came  another  sigh,  only  deeper 
than  the  first,  and  from  the  blackness  on  his  left  rose 
another  moan,  an'  then  a  groaning,  moaning  chorus 
rose  all  round  him,  an'  lost  itself  in  the  wailing  of 
the  wind.  He  was  surrounded — the  ghosts  had  cap- 
tured Darby. 

The  lad  never  rayalised  before  that  minute  what  a 
precious  thing  is  daylight.  If  there  would  only  come 
a  flash  of  lightening  to  show  him  the  faces  of  the 
[259] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

surrounding  spirrits,  horrible  though  they  might  be, 
he'd  bid  it  welcome.  But  though  the  rain  drizzled 
an'  the  tunder  rumpled,  not  a  flare  lit  up  the  sky. 

One  swift,  dusperate  hope  at  the  last  minute  saved 
the  boy  from  sheer  dispair;  an'  that  same  hope  was 
that  maybe  some  of  the  Good  People  might  be  flyin' 
about  an'  would  hear  him.  Liftin'  up  his  face  to  the 
sky  an'  crying  out  to  the  passin'  wind,  he  says : 

"  Boys,"  he  says,  agonised,  "  lads,"  says  he,  "  if 
there  be  any  of  yez  to  listen,"  he  cried,  "  I'll  take  it 
as  a  great  favour  an'  I'll  thank  ye  kindly  to  tell  King 
Brian  Connors  that  his  friend  an'  comerade,  Darby 
O'Gill,  is  in  deep  throuble  and  wants  to  see  him 
imaget,"  says  he. 

"  Ho!  ho!  ho!  "  laughed  the  tumble  thing  in  the 
hedge. 

In  spite  of  the  laugh  he  was  almost  sure  that  off 
in  the  distance  a  cry  answered  him. 

To  make  sure  he  called  again,  but  this  time,  though 
he  sthrained  his  ears  till  their  drums  ached,  he  caught 
no  rayply. 

And  now,  out  of  the  murkiness  in  the  road  ahead 
of  him,  something  began  to  grow  slowly  into  a  tall, 
slender,  white  figure.  Motionless  it  stood,  tightly 
[260] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

wrapped  in  a  winding  sheet.  In  its  presence  a  new 
an'  awful  fear  pressed  down  the  heart  of  Darby.  He 
felt,  too,  that  another  shade  had  taken  its  place  be- 
hindt  him,  an'  he  didn't  want  to  look,  an'  sthrove 
against  lookin',  but  something  forced  the  lad  to  turn 
his  head.  There,  sure  enough,  not  foive  feet  away, 
stood  still  an'  silent  the  tall,  dark  figure  of  a  man  in 
a  topcoat. 

Thin  came  from  every  direction  low,  hissing  whus- 
pers  that  the  lad  couldn't  undherstand.  Somethin' 
turrible  would  happen  in  a  minute — he  knew  that 
well. 

There's  just  so  much  fear  in  every  man,  just  ex- 
actly as  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  courage,  an'  whin 
the  fear  is  all  spilt  a  man  aither  fights  or  dies.  So 
Darby  had  always  said. 

He  raymembered  there  was  a  gap  in  the  hedge 
nearly  opposite  the  clump  of  willows,  so  he  med  up 
his  mind  that,  come  what  might,  he'd  make  a  gran* 
charge  for  it,  an'  so  into  the  upland  meadow  beyant. 
He  waited  an  instant  to  get  some  strength  back  intil 
his  knees,  an'  then  he  gave  a  spring.  But  that  one 
spring  was  all  he  med — in  that  direction,  at  laste. 

For,  as  he  neared  the  ditch,  a  dozen  white,  ghostly 
[261] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

hands  raiched  out  eager  for  him.  With  a  gasp  he 
whirled  in  his  thracks  an*  rushed  mad  to  the  willows 
opposite,  but  there  a  hundhred  gashly  fingers  were 
stretched  out  to  meet  the  poor  lad;  an'  as  he  stag- 
gered back  into  the  middle  of  the  road  agin,  the  hayro 
couldn't,  to  save  his  sowl,  keep  back  a  long  cry  of  ter- 
ror and  disthress. 

Imaget,  from  undher  the  willows  and  from  the 
ditch  near  the  hedge  an'  in  the  air  above  his  head, 
from  countless  dead  lips  aychoed  that  triumphing, 
onairthly  laugh,  Ho!  ho!  ho! 

'Twas  then  Darby  just  nearly  guve  up  for  lost. 
He  felt  his  eyes  growing  dim  an'  his  limbs  numb. 
There  was  no  air  comin'  into  his  lungs,  for  whin  he 
thried  to  breathe  he  only  gaped,  so  that  he  knew  the 
black  spell  was  on  him,  an'  that  all  that  was  left  for 
him  to  do  was  to  sink  down  in  the  road  an'  thin  to 
die. 

But  at  that  minute  there  floated  from  a  great  way 
off  the  faint  cry  of  a  woice  the  dispairing  man  knew 
well. 

"  Keep  up  your  heart,  Darby  O'Gill,"  cried  Brian 
Connors ;  "  we're  coming  to  resky  you,"  an'  from  over 
the  fields  a  wild  cheer  f  ollyed  thim  worruds. 
[262] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

"  Faugh-a-balla — clear  the  way !  "  sprang  the 
shrill  war-cry  of  a  thousand  of  the  Good  People. 

At  the  first  sound  of  the  King's  worruds  there  rose 
about  Darby  the  mighty  flurrying  an'  rushing  of 
wings  in  the  darkness,  as  if  thraymendous  birds  were 
rising  sudden  an'  flying  away,  an*  the  air  emptied 
itself  of  a  smothering  heaviness. 

So  fast  came  the  King's  fairy  army  that  the  great 
cheer  was  still  aychoing  among  the  threes  when  the 
goold  crown  of  Brian  Connors  sparkled  up  from  be- 
side the  knowledgeable  man's  knees.  At  that  the  par- 
secuted  man,  sobbin'  with  joy,  knelt  down  in  the 
muddy  road  to  shake  hands  with  his  friend,  the  mas- 
ther  of  the  Good  People. 

Brian  Connors  was  not  alone,  for  there  crowded 
about  Darby,  sympathisin'  with  him,  little  Phelim 
Beg,  an'  Nial  the  fiddler,  an'  Shaun  Rhue  the  smith, 
an'  Phadrig  Oge.  Also  every  instant,  flitthering  out 
of  the  sky  into  the  road,  came  be  the  score  green- 
cloaked  and  red-hooded  men,  follying  the  King  an* 
ready  for  throuble. 

"  If  ever  a  man  needed  a  dhrop  of  good  whusky, 
you're  the  hayro,  an'  this  is  the  time  an'  place  for 
it,"  says  the  King,  handin'  up  a  silver-topped  noggin. 
[263] 


THE      BANSHEE     S       COMB 

"  Dhrink  it  all,"  he  says,  "  an'  then  we'll  escorch  ye 
home.  Come  on,"  says  he. 

The  masther  of  the  night-time  turned  an'  shouted 
to  his  subjects.  "  Boys,"  he  cried,  "  we'll  go  wisible, 
the  betther  for  company  sake.  An'  do  you  make  the 
'luminaytion  so  Darby  can  see  yez  with  him ! " 

At  that  the  lovely  rosy  light  which,  as  you  may 
raymember,  our  hayro  first  saw  in  the  fairy's  home 
at  Sleive-na-mon,  lighted  up  the  roadway,  an'  undher 
the  leafy  arches,  bobbin'  along  like  a  ridgement  of 
sojers,  all  in  their  green  cloaks  an'  red  caps,  marched 
at  laste  a  thousand  of  the  Little  People,  with  Phadrig 
Oge  at  their  head  actin'  as  gineral. 

As  they  passed  the  mill  foive  dayfiant  pipers  med 
the  batthered  ould  windys  rattle  with  "  Garry  Owen." 


[  264  ] 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE    COSTA    BOWER 
I 

So  the  green-dhressed  little  army,  all  in  the  sweet, 
rosy  light  they  made,  wint  marchin',  to  the  merry 
music  of  the  pipes,  over  the  tree-bowered  roadway, 
past  the  ha'nted  brakes  up  the  shivering  hills,  an' 
down  into  the  waiting  dales,  making  the  grim  night 
maylodious. 

For  a  long  space  not  a  worrud,  good,  bad,  or  in- 
different, said  Darby. 

But  a  sparrow  woke  her  dhrowsy  childher  to  look 
at  the  beautiful  purcession,  an'  a  robin  called  excited 
to  her  sleepy  neighbours,  the  linnets  an'  the  rabbits 
an'  the  hares,  an'  hundhreds  like  them  crowded  day- 
lighted  through  the  bushes,  an'  stood  peerin'  through 
the  glistening  leaves  as  their  well-known  champyions 
wint  by.  A  dozen  wentursome  young  owls  flew  from 
bough  to  bough,  follying  along,  crackin'  good-nat- 
ured but  friendly  jokes  at  their  friends,  the  fairies. 
Thin  other  birds  came  flying  from  miles  around,  twit- 
thering  jubilaytion. 

[265] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

But  the  stern- jawed,  frowny-eyed  Little  People  for 
once  answered  back  never  a  worrud,  but  marched  stiff 
an'  silent,  as  sojers  should.  You'd  swear  'twas  the 
Enniskillins  or  'twas  the  Eighteenth  Hussars  that 
'twas  in  it. 

"  Isn't  that  Gineral  Julius  Sayser  at  the  head  ?  " 
says  one  brown  owl,  flapping  an  owdacious  wing  at 
Phadrig  Oge. 

"  No ! "  cries  his  brother,  another  young  villian. 
"  'Tis  only  the  Jook  of  Wellington.  But  look  at  the 
bothered  face  on  Darby  O'Gill!  Musha,  are  the 
Good  People  goin'  to  hang  Darby?  " 

And  faix,  thin,  sure  enough,  there  was  mighty  lit- 
tle elaytion  on  the  faytures  of  our  hayro.  For,  as 
he  came  marchin'  along,  silent  an'  moody,  beside  the 
King,  what  to  do  with  the  banshee's  comb  was  both- 
erin'  the  heart  out  of  him.  If  he  had  only  trun  it  to 
the  ghosts  whin  he  was  there  at  the  mill!  But  that 
turrible  laugh  had  crunched  all  sense  an'  rayson  out 
of  him,  so  that  he  forgot  to  do  that  very  wise  thing. 
Ochone,  now  the  ghosts  knew  he  had  it ;  so,  to  trow  it 
away'd  do  no  good,  onless  they'd  find  it  afther.  One 
thing  was  sartin — he  must  some  way  get  it  back  to 
the  banshee,  or  else  be  ha'nted  all  the  rest  of  his  days. 
[266] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

He  was  sore-hearted,  too,  at  the  King,  an'  a  bit 
crass-timpered  bekase  the  little  man  had  stayed  away 
so  long  frum  wisitin'  with  him. 

But  at  last  the  knowledgeable  man  found  his 
tongue.  "  Be  me  faix,  King,"  he  complained,  "  'tis 
a  cure  for  sore  eyes  to  see  ye.  I  might  have  been 
dead  an'  buried  an'  you  none  the  wiser,"  says  he, 
sulky. 

"  Sure,  I've  been  out  of  the  counthry  a  fortnit," 
says  the  King.  "  And  I've  only  rayturned  within  the 
hour,"  he  says.  "  I  wint  on  a  suddin  call  to  purvent 
a  turrible  war  betwixt  the  Frinch  fairies  and  the 
German  fairies.  I've  been  for  two  weeks  on  an  island 
in  the  River  Ryan,  betwixt  France  an'  Germany.  The 
river  is  called  afther  an  Irishman  be  the  name  of 
Ryan." 

"  At  laste  ye  might  have  sint  me  wurrud,"  says 
Darby. 

"  I  didn't  think  I'd  be  so  long  gone,"  says  the 
fairy ;  "  but  the  disputaytion  was  thraymendous,"  he 
says. 

The  little  man  dhrew  himself  up  dignayfied  an' 
scowled  solemn  up  at  Darby.     "  They  left  it  for  me 
to  daycide,"  he  says,  "  an'  this  was  the  contintion : 
[267] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

"  Fufty  years  ago  a  swan  belongin'  to  the  Frincli 
fairies  laid  a  settin'  of  eggs  on  that  same  island,  an' 
thin  comes  along  a  German  swan,  an'  what  does  the 
impident  craythure  do  but  set  herself  down  on  the 
eggs  laid  be  the  Frinch  swan  an'  hatched  thim. 
Afther  the  hatchin'  the  German  min  claimed  the 
young  ones,  but  the  Frinchmen  pray-imp-thurribly 
daymanded  thim  back,  d'ye  mind.  An'  the  German 
min  dayfied  thim,  d'ye  see.  So,  of  course,  the  trouble 
started.  For  fufty  years  it  has  been  growin', 
an'  before  fightin',  as  a  last  ray  sort,  they  sint  for 
me. 

"  Well,  I  saw  at  once  that  at  the  bottom  of  all  was 
the  ould,  ould  question,  which  has  been  disthurbin' 
the  worruld  an'  dhrivin'  people  crazy  for  three  thou- 
sand years." 

"  I  know,"  says  Darby,  scornful,  "  'twas  whither 
the  hin  that  laid  the  egg  or  the  hin  that  hatched  the 
egg  is  the  mother  of  the  young  chicken." 

"  An'  nothin'  else  but  that !  "  cried  the  King,  sur- 
prised. "  Now,  what  d'ye  think  I  daycided  ?  "  he 
says. 

Now,  yer  honour,  I'll  always  blame  Darby  for  not 
listening  to  the  King's  daycision,  bekase  'tis  a  matther 
[268] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

I've  studied  meself  considherable,  an'  never  could 
rightly  con-elude ;  but  Darby  at  the  time  was  so  both- 
ered that  he  only  said,  in  rayply  to  the  King : 

"  Sure,  it's  little  I  know,  an'  sorra  little  I  care,"  he 
says,  sulky.  "  I've  something  more  important  than 
hin's  eggs  throubling  me  mind,  an'  maybe  ye  can 
help  me,"  he  says,  anxious. 

"  Arrah,  out  with  it,  man,"  says  the  King.  "  We'll 
find  a  way,  avourneen,"  he  says,  cheerful. 

With  that  Darby  up  an'  toult  everything  that  had 
happened  Halloween  night  an'  since,  an',  indeed,  be 
sayin' :  "  Now,  here's  that  broken  piece  of  comb  in  me 
pocket,  an'  what  to  do  with  it  I  don't  know.  Will  ye 
take  it  to  the  banshee,  King?  "  he  says. 

The  King  turned  grave  as  a  goat.  "  I  wouldn't 
touch  that  thing  in  yer  pocket,  good  friends  as  we 
are,  to  save  yer  life — not  for  a  hundhred  pounds.  It 
might  give  them  power  over  me.  Yours  is  the  only 
mortial  hand  that  ever  touched  the  banshee's  comb, 
an'  yours  is  the  hand  that  should  raystore  it." 

"  Oh,  my,  look  at  that,  now,"  says  Darby,  in  de- 
spair, nodding  his  head  very  solemn. 

"  Besides,"  says  the  King,  without  noticin'  him, 
"  there's  only  one  ghost  in  Croaghmah  I  'ssociate 
[269] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

with — an'  that's  Shaun.  They  are  mostly  onculta- 
vayted,  an'  I  almost  said  raydundant.  Although  I'd 
hate  to  call  anyone  raydundant  onless  I  had  to,"  says 
the  just-minded  ould  man. 

"  I'll  trow  it  here  in  the  road  an'  let  some  of  them 
find  it,"  says  Darby,  dusperate.  "  I'll  take  the 
chanst,"  says  he. 

The  King  was  shocked,  an',  trowing  up  a  warnin' 
hand,  he  says: 

"  Be  no  manner  of  manes,"  the  fairy  says,  "  you 
forget  that  thim  ghosts  were  once  min  an'  women 
like  yerself ,  so  whin  goold's  consarned  they're  not  to 
be  thrusted.  If  one  should  find  the  comb  he  mightn't 
give  it  to  the  banshee  at  all — he  might  turn  'bezzler 
an'  'buzzle  it.  No,  no,  you  must  give  it  to  herself 
pursnal,  or  else  you  an'  Bridget  an'  the  childher'll 
be  ha'nted  all  yer  days.  An'  there's  no  time  to  lose, 
ayther,"  says  he. 

"  But  Bridget  an'  the  childher's  waitin'  for  me  this 
minute,"  wailed  Darby.  "  An'  the  pony,  what's  be- 
come of  her  ?  An'  me  supper  ?  "  he  cried. 

A  little  lad  who  was  marchin'  just  ahead  turned  an' 
spoke  up. 

"  The  pony's  tied  in  the  stable,  an'  Bothered  Bill 
[270] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

has  gone  sneakin'  off  to  McCloskey's,"  the  little  man 
says.    "  I  saw  thim  as  I  flew  past." 

"  Phadrig !  "  shouted  the  King.  "  Donnell !  Conn ! 
Nial!  Phelim!"  he  called. 

With  that  the  little  min  named  rose  from  the  ranks, 
their  cloaks  spread,  an'  come  flyin'  back  like  big  green 
buttherflies,  an'  they  sthopped  huvering  in  the  air 
above  Darby  an'  the  King. 

"  What's  wanted?  "  axed  Phelim. 

"  Does  any  of  yez  know  where  the  banshee's  due  at 
this  hour?  "  the  King  rayplied. 

"  She's  due  in  County  Roscommon  at  Castle 
O'Flinn,  if  I  don't  misraymimber,"  spoke  up  the  lit- 
tle fiddler.  "  But  I'm  thinking  that  since  Halloween 
she  ain't  worrukin'  much,  an'  purhaps  she  won't  lave 
Croaghmah." 

"  Well,  has  any  one  of  yez  seen  Shaun  the  night, 
I  dunno?  "  axed  the  master. 

"  Sorra  one  of  me  knows,"  says  Phadrig.  "  Nor 
I,"  "  Nor  I,"  "  Nor  I,"  cried  one  afther  the  other. 

"  Well,  find  where  the  banshee's  stayin',"  says 
King  Brian.  "  An'  some  of  yez,  exceptin'  Phadrig, 
go  look  for  Shaun,  an'  tell  him  I  want  to  see  him 
purtic'lar,"  says  the  King. 

[271] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

The  foive  huvering  little  lads  wanished  like  a  candle 
that's  blown  out. 

"  As  for  you,  Phadrig,"  wint  on  the  masther  fairy, 
"  tell  the  ridgiment  they're  to  guard  this  townland 
the  night,  an'  keep  the  ghosts  out  of  it.  Begin  at 
once !  "  he  commanded. 

The  worruds  wern't  well  said  till  the  whole  ridgi- 
ment had  blown  itself  out,  an'  agin  the  night  closed  in 
as  black  as  yer  hat.  But  as  it  did  Darby  caught  a 
glimpse  from  afar  of  the  goolden  light  of  his  own 
open  door,  an'  he  thought  he  could  see  on  the  thrashol 
the  shadow  of  Bridget,  with  one  of  the  childher  cling- 
ing to  her  skirt,  an'  herself  watchin'  with  a  hand  shad- 
ing her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  go  home  to  yer  supper,  me  poor  man," 
says  the  King,  "  an'  meantime  I'll  engage  Shaun  to 
guide  us  to  the  banshee.  He's  a  great  comerade  of 
hers,  an'  he'll  paycificate  her  if  anyone  can." 

The  idee  of  becomin'  acquainted  pursonal  with  the 
ghosts,  an'  in  a  friendly,  pleasant  way  have  dal- 
ings  with  them,  was  a  new  sinsation  to  Darby. 
"  What'll  I  do  now?  "  he  axed. 

"  Go  home  to  yer  supper,"  says  the  King,  "  an' 
meet  me  by  the  withered  three  at  Conroy's  crass-roads 
[272] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

on  the  sthroke  of  twelve.  There'll  be  little  danger 
to-night,  I'm  thinkin',  but  if  ye  should  run  against 
one  of  thim  spalpeens  trow  the  bit  of  comb  at  him; 
maybe  he'll  take  it  to  the  banshee  an'  maybe  he  won't. 
At  any  rate,  'tis  the  best  yez  can  do." 

"  Don't  keep  me  waitin'  on  the  crass-roads,  what- 
ever else  happens,"  warned  Darby. 

"  I'll  do  me  best  endayvour,"  says  the  King.  "  But 
be  sure  to  racognise  me  whin  I  come;  make  no  mis- 
take, for  ye'll  have  to  spake  first,"  he  says. 

They  were  walking  along  all  this  time,  an'  now 
had  come  to  Darby's  own  stile.  The  lad  could  see 
the  heads  of  the  childher  bunched  up  agin  the  windy- 
pane.  The  King  sthopped,  an',  laying  a  hand  on 
Darby's  arrum,  spoke  up  umpressive  : 

"  If  I  come  to  the  crass-roads  as  a  cow  with  a  rope 
about  me  horns  ye'll  lade  me,"  he  says.  "  If  I  come 
as  a  horse  with  a  saddle  on  me  back,  yez'll  ride  me," 
says  he.  "  But  if  I  come  as  a  pig  with  a  rope  tied 
to  me  lift  hind  leg,  ye'll  dhrive  me,"  says  the  King. 

"  Oh,  my !  Oh,  my !  Oh,  tare  an'  ages !  "  says 
Darby. 

"  But,"  says  the  King,  wavin'  his  hand  aginst  in- 
thurruptions,  "  so  that  we'll  know  aich  other  we'll 
[273] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

have  a  by-worrud  bechuxt  us.  An'  it'll  be  poethry," 
he  says.  "  So  that  I'll  know  that  'tis  you  that's  in 
it  ye'll  say  *  Cabbage  an'  bacon ' ;  an'  so  that  ye'll 
know  that  'tis  me  that's  in  it  I'll  answer,  *  Will  sthop 
the  heart  achin'.'  Cabbage  an'  bacon  will  sthop  the 
heart  achin',"  says  the  King,  growin'  unwisible. 
"  That's  good,  satisfyin'  poethry,"  he  says.  But  the 
last  worruds  were  sounded  out  of  the  empty  air  an* 
a  little  way  above,  for  the  masther  of  the  night-time 
had  wanished.  At  that  Darby  wint  in  to  his  supper. 

I  won't  expaytiate  to  yer  honour  on  how  our  hayro 
spint  the  avenin'  at  home,  an'  how,  afther  Bridget 
an'  the  childher  were  in  bed,  that  a  growin'  daysire 
to  meet  an'  talk  sociable  with  a  ghost  fought  with 
tunty  black  fears  an'  almost  bate  them.  But  whin- 
ever  his  mind  hesitayted,  as  it  always  did  at  the 
thought  of  the  Costa  Bower,  a  finger  poked  into  his 
weskit  pocket  where  the  broken  bit  of  comb  lay  hid, 
turned  the  scale. 

Howandever,  at  length  an'  at  last,  just  before  mid- 
night our  hayro,  dhressed  once  more  for  the  road, 
wint  splashin'  an'  ploddin'  up  the  lane  toward  Con- 
roy's  crass-roads. 

[274] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 


II 

A  man  is  never  so  brave  as  whin  sittin'  ferninst 
his  own  comfortable  fire,  a  hot  supper  asleep  in  his 
chist,  a  steamin'  noggin  of  flaygrant  punch  in  his 
fist,  an'  a  well-thried  pipe  betwixt  his  teeth.  At  such 
times  he  rumynates  on  the  ould  ancient  hayroes,  an' 
he  daycides  they  were  no  great  shakes,  afther  all. 
They  had  the  chanst  to  show  themselves,  an'  that's 
the  only  difference  betwixet  himself  an'  themselves. 
But  whin  he's  flung  sudden  out  of  thim  pleasant  sur- 
cumstances,  as  Darby  was,  to  go  chargin'  around  in 
the  darkness,  hunting  unknown  an'  unwisible  dangers, 
much  of  that  courage  oozes  out  of  him. 

An'  so  the  sthrangest  of  all  sthrange  things  was, 
that  this  night,  whin  'twas  his  fortune  to  be  taken 
up  be  the  Costa  Bower,  that  a  dhread  of  that  death- 
coach  was  present  in  his  mind  from  the  minute  he 
shut  the  door  on  himself,  an'  it  outweighed  all  other 
fears. 

In  spite  of  the  insurance  that  King  Brian  had 
given,  in  spite  of  the  knowledge  that  his  friends,  the 
Good  People,  were  flyin'  hither  an'  thither  over  that 
[275] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

townland,  there  crept  into  his  sowl  an'  fastened  itself 
there  the  chanst  that  the  headless  dhriver  might  slip 
past  thim  all  an'  gobble  him  up. 

In  wain  he  tould  himself  that  there  were  a  million 
spots  in  Ireland  where  the  death-carriage  was  more 
likely  to  be  than  in  his  own  path.  But  in  spite  of  all 
raysons,  a  dhreading,  shiverin'  feelin'  was  in  his  bones, 
so  that  as  he  splashed  along  he  was  flinging  anxious 
looks  behind  or  thremblin'  at  the  black,  wavering 
shadows  in  front. 

Howsumever,  there  was  some  comfort  to  know  that 
the  weather  was  changin'  for  the  betther.  Strong 
winds  had  swept  the  worst  of  the  storm  out  over  the 
ocean,  where  it  lingered  slow,  growlin'  an'  sputtherin' 
lightening. 

A  few  scatthered,  frowning  clouds,  trowing  ugly 
looks  at  the  moon,  sulked  behind. 

"  Lord  love  your  shining  face,"  says  Darby,  look- 
ing up  to  where  the  full  moon,  big  as  the  bottom  of  a 
tub,  shone  bright  an'  clear  over  his  head.  "  An'  it's 
I  that  hopes  that  the  blaggard  of  a  cloud  I  see 
creeping  over  at  you  from  Sleive-na-mon  won't  raich 
you  an'  squinch  your  light  before  I  meet  up  with 
Brian  Connors." 

[276] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

The  moon,  in  answer,  brushed  a  cloud  from  her 
face,  and  shed  a  clearer,  fuller  light,  that  made  the 
flooded  fields  an'  dhropping  threes  quiver  an'  glisten. 

On  top  of  the  little  mound  known  as  Conroy's  Hill, 
an'  which  is  just  this  side  of  where  the  roads  crass, 
the  friend  of  the  fairies  looked  about  over  the  lone- 
some counthry-side. 

Here  and  there  gleamed  a  distant  farm-house,  a 
still  white  speck  in  the  moonlight.  Only  at  Con  Kel- 
ley's,  which  was  a  good  mile  down  the  road,  was  a 
friendly  spark  of  light  to  be  seen,  an'  that  spark  was 
so  dim  and  so  far  that  it  only  pressed  down  the  lone- 
liness heavier  on  Darby's  heart. 

"  Wisha,"  says  Darby,  "  how  much  I'd  druther  be 
there  merry-makin'  with  the  boys  an'  girls  than  stand- 
in'  here  lonesome  and  cowld,  waiting  for  the  divil 
knows  what." 

He  sthrained  his  eyes  for  a  sight  of  a  horse,  or  a 
cow,  or  a  pig,  or  anything  that  might  turn  out  to 
be  Brian  Connors.  The  only  thing  that  moved  was 
the  huge  dark  cloud  that  stretched  up  from  Sleive- 
na-mon,  and  its  heavy  edge  already  touched  the  rim 
of  the  moon. 

He  started  down  the  hill. 

[277] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

The  withered  three  at  the  cross-roads  where  he  was 
to  meet  the  King  waved  its  blackened  arms  and 
lifted  them  up  in  warning  as  he  came  toward  it,  an' 
it  dhripped  cowld  tears  upon  his  caubeen  and  down 
his  neck  when  he  stood  quaking  in  its  shadows. 

"  If  the  headless  coachman  were  to  ketch  me  here," 
he  whumpered,  "  and  fling  me  into  his  carriage,  not  a 
sowl  on  earth  would  ever  know  what  became  of  me. 

"  I  wish  I  wasn't  so  knowledgeable,"  he  says,  half 
cryin'.  "  I  wish  I  was  as  ignorant  about  ghosts  an' 
fairies  as  little  Mrs.  Bradigan,  who  laughs  at  them. 
The  more  you  know  the  more  you  need  know.  Musha, 
there  goes  the  moon." 

And  at  them  words  the  great  blaggard  cloud  closed 
in  on  the  moon  and  left  the  worruld  as  black  as  yer 
hat. 

That  wasn't  the  worst  of  it  by  no  manner  of  manes, 
for  at  the  same  instant  there  came  a  rush  of  wind,  an' 
with  it  a  low,  hollow  rumble  that  froze  the  marrow  in 
Darby's  bones.  He  sthrained  his  eyes  toward  the 
sound,  but  it  was  so  dark  he  couldn't  see  his  hand  be- 
fore his  face. 

He  thried  to  run,  but  his  legs  turned  to  blocks  of 
wood  and  dayfied  him. 

[278] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

All  the  time  the  rumble  of  the  tumble  coach  dhrew 
nearer  an'  nearer,  an'  he  felt  himself  helpless  as  a 
babe.  He  closed  his  eyes  to  shut  out  the  horror  of  the 
headless  dhriver  an'  of  the  poor,  dead  men  laning  back 
agin  the  sate. 

At  that  last  minute  a  swift  hope  that  the  King 
might  be  within  hearing  lent  him  a  flash  of  strength, 
and  he  called  out  the  by-word. 

"  Cabbage  an'  bacon ! "  he  cried  out,  dispairing. 
"  Cabbage  an'  bacon'll  stop  the  heart  achin' ! "  he 
roared,  dismally,  an'  then  he  gave  a  great  gasp,  for 
there  was  a  splash  in  the  road  f  erninst  the  three,  an'  a 
thraymendous  black  coach,  with  four  goint  horses  an* 
a  coachman  on  the  box,  stood  still  as  death  before 
him. 

The  dhriver  wore  a  brown  greatcoat,  the  lines 
hung  limp  in  his  fingers,  an'  Darby's  heart  sthopped 
palpitaytin'  at  the  sight  of  the  two  broad,  headless 
chowlders. 

The  knowledgeable  man  sthrove  to  cry  out  agin, 
but  he  could  only  croak  like  a  raven. 

"  Cabbage  an'  bacon'll  stop  the  heart  achin',"  he 
says. 

Something  moved  inside  the  coach.  "  Foolish 
[279] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

man,"  a  woice  cried,  "  you've  not  only  guv  the  by- 
word, but  at  the  same  time  you've  shouted  out  its 
answer !  " 

At  the  woice  of  the  King — for  'twas  the  King  who 
spoke — a  great  wakeness  came  over  Darby,  an'  he 
laned  limp  agin  the  three. 

"  Suppose,"  the  King  went  on,  "  that  it  was  an 
inemy  you'd  met  up  with  instead  of  a  friend.  Tare 
an'  'ounds !  he'd  have  our  saycret  and  maybe  he'd  put 
the  comeither  on  ye.  Shaun,"  he  says,  up  to  the 
dhriver,  "  this  is  the  human  bean  we're  to  take  with 
us  down  to  Croaghmah  to  meet  the  banshee." 

From  a  place  down  on  the  sate  on  the  far  side  of 
the  dhriver  a  deep,  slow  woice,  that  sounded  as  though 
it  had  fur  on  it,  spoke  up : 

"  I'm  glad  to  substantiate  any  sarvice  that  will  in 
any  way  con  juice  to  the  amaylyro-ra-tion  of  any 
friend  of  the  raynounded  King  Brian  Connors,  even 
though  that  friend  be  only  a  human  bean.  I  was  a 
humble  human  bean  meself  three  or  four  hundhred 
years  ago." 

At  that  statement  Darby  out  of  politeness  thried 
to  look  surprised. 

"  You  must  be  a  jook  or  an  earl,  or  some  other  rich 
[280] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

pillosopher,  to  have  the  most  raynouned  fairy  in 
the  worruld  take  such  a  shine  to  you,"  wint  on  the 
head. 

"  Haven't  ye  seen  enough  to  make  yerself  like 
him?  "  cried  the  King,  raising  half  his  body  through 
the  open  windy.  "  Didn't  ye  mark  how  ca'm  an* 
bould  he  stood  waitin'  for  ye,  whin  any  other  man  in 
Ireland  would  be  this  time  have  wore  his  legs  to  the 
knees  runnin'  from  ye?  Where  is  the  pillosopher  ex- 
cept Darby  O'Gill  who  would  have  guessed  that  'twas 
meself  that  was  in  the  coach,  an'  would  have  flung  me 
the  by-worrud  so  careless  and  handy? "  cried  the 
King,  his  face  blazing  with  admyration. 

The  worruds  put  pride  into  the  heart  of  our  hayro, 
an'  pride  the  worruld  over  is  the  twin  sisther  of  cour- 
age. And  then,  too,  whilst  the  King  was  talkin'  that 
deep,  obsthreperous  cloud  which  had  covered  the  sky 
slipped  off  the  edge  of  the  moon  an'  hurried  to  jine 
its  fellows,  who  were  waiting  for  it  out  over  the  ocean. 
And  the  moon,  to  make  a-minds  for  its  late  obscuray- 
tion,  showered  down  sudden  a  flood  of  such  cheerful, 
silver  light  that  the  drooping,  separate  leaves  and  the 
glistening  blades  of  grass  lept  up  clane  an'  laughin* 
to  the  eye.  Some  of  that  cheer  wint  into  Darby's 
[281] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

breast,  an'  with  it  crept  back  fresh  his  ould  confidence 
in  his  champyion,  the  King. 

But  the  headless  dhriver  was  talking.  "  O'Gill," 
says  the  slow  woice  agin,  "  did  I  hear  ye  say  O'Gill, 
Brian  Connors?  Surely  not  one  of  the  O'Gills  of 
Ballinthubber?  " 

Darby  answered  rayluctant  an'  haughty,  for  he 
had  a  feeling  that  the  monsther  was  goin'  to  claim 
relaytionship,  an'  the  idee  put  a  bad  taste  in  his 
mouth.  "  All  me  father's  people  came  from  Ballin- 
thubber," he  says. 

"  Come  this  or  come  that,"  says  the  deep  woice, 
thremblin'  with  excitement,  "  I'll  have  one  look  at  ye." 
No  sooner  said  than  done;  for  with  that  sayin'  the 
coachman  thwisted,  an'  picking  up  an  extra'onary 
big  head  from  the  sate  beside  him,  hilt  it  up  in  his 
two  hands  an'  faced  it  to  the  road.  'Twas  the  face  of 
a  goint.  The  lad  marked  that  its  wiry  red  whuskers 
grew  close  undher  its  eyes,  an'  the  flaming  hair  of  the 
head  curled  an'  rowled  down  to  where  the  chowlders 
should  have  been.  An'  he  saw,  too,  that  the  nose  was 
wide  an'  that  the  eyes  were  little.  An  uglier  face  you 
couldn't  wish  to  obsarve. 

But  as  he  looked,  the  boy  saw  the  great  lips  tighten 
[282] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

an'  grow  wide;  the  eyelids  half  closed,  an'  the  head 
gave  a  hoarse  sob;  the  tears  thrickled  down  its  nose. 
The  head  was  cry  in'. 

First  Darby  grew  oncomfortable,  then  he  felt  in- 
sulted to  be  cried  at  that  way  be  a  total  sthranger. 
An'  as  the  tears  rowled  faster  an'  faster,  an'  the  sobs 
came  louder  an'  louder,  an'  the  ugly  eyes  kep'  leer- 
ing at  him  affectionate,  he  grew  hot  with  indignay- 
tion. 

Seeing  which,  the  head  spoke  up,  snivelling: 

"  Plaze  don't  get  pugnaycious  nor  yet  disputay- 
tious,"  it  begged,  betwixt  sobs.  "  'Tisn't  yer  face 
that  hurts  me  an'  makes  me  cry.  I've  seen  worse — a 
great  dale  worse — many's  the  time.  But  'tis  the 
amazin'  fam'ly  raysimblance  that's  pathrifying  me 
heart." 

The  dhriver  lifted  the  tail  of  his  coat  an'  wiped  the 
head's  two  weepin'  eyes.  "  'Twas  in  Ballinthubber  I 
was  born  an'  in  Ballinthubber  I  was  rared;  an'  it's 
there  I  came  to  me  misfortune  through  love  of  a 
purty,  fair  maid  named  Margit  Ellen  O'Gill.  There 
was  a  song  about  it,"  he  says. 

"  I've  heerd  it  many  an'  many  the  time,"  says  the 
King,  noddin',  sympathisin',  "  though  not  for  the  last 
[283] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

hundhred  years  or  so."     Darby  glared,  scornful,  at 
the  King. 

"  Vo !  Vo !  Vo !  "  wailed  the  head,  "  but  you're  like 
her.  If  it  wasn't  for  yer  bunchy  red  hair,  an'  for  the 
big  brown  wen  that  was  on  her  forehead,  ye'd  be  as 
like  as  two  pase." 

"  Arrah,"  says  Darby,  brustlin',  "  I'm  ashamed  to 
see  a  man  of  yer  sinse  an'  station,"  he  says,  "  an'  high 
dictation " 

"  Lave  off !  "  broke  in  the  King,  pulling  Darby  be 
the  sleeve.  "  Come  inside !  Whatever  else  you  do, 
rayspect  the  sintimintalities — there  all  we  have  to  live 
for,  ghost  or  mortial,"  says  he. 

So,  grumbling,  Darby  took  a  place  within  the 
coach  beside  his  friend.  He  filled  his  poipe,  an'  was 
borrying  a  bit  of  fire  from  that  of  the  King,  whin 
looking  up  he  saw  just  back  of  the  dhriver's  seat,  and 
opening  into  the  carriage,  a  square  hole  of  about  the 
height  an'  the  width  of  yer  two  hands.  An'  set  agin 
the  hole,  starin'  affectionate  down  at  him,  was  the 
head,  an'  it  smiling  langwidging. 

"  Be  this  an'  be  that,"  Darby  growled  low  to  the 
King,  "  if  he  don't  take  his  face  out  of  that  windy, 
ghost  or  no  ghost,  I'll  take  a  poke  at  him !  " 
[284] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

"  Be  no  manner  of  manes,"  says  the  King,  anxious. 
"  What'd  we  do  without  him  ?  We'll  be  at  Croagh- 
mah  in  a  few  minutes,  then  he  needn't  bother  ye." 

"  Why  don't  ye  dhrive  on?  "  says  Darby,  lookin' 
up  surly  at  the  head.  "  Why  don't  ye  start?  " 

"  We're  goin'  these  last  three  minutes,"  smiled 
Shaun ;  "  we're  comin'  up  to  Kilmartin  churchyard 
now." 

"  Have  you  passed  Tom  Grogan's  public-house?  " 
axed  the  King,  starting  up,  anxious. 

"  I  have,  but  I  can  turn  back  agin,"  says  the  face, 
lighting  up,  intherested. 

"  They  keep  the  best  whusky  there  in  this  part  of 
Ireland,"  says  the  King.  "  Would  ye  mind  steppin' 
in  an'  bringing  us  out  a  sup,  Darby  agra?  " 

Misthress  Tom  Grogan  was  a  tall,  irritated  woman, 
with  sharp  corners  all  over  her,  an'  a  timper  that  was 
like  an  east  wind.  She  was  standing  at  her  own  door, 
argyin'  with  Garge  McGibney  an'  Wullum  Broderick, 
an'  daling  them  out  harrud  names,  whilst  her  hus- 
band, Tom,  a  mild  little  man,  stood  within  laning  on 
the  bar,  smoking  saydately.  Garge  an'  Wullum  were 
argying  back  at  Misthress  Grogan,  tellin'  her  what 
a  foine-looking,  rayspectable  woman  she  was,  an' 
[285] 


THE     BANSHEE'S     COMB 

couldn't  they  have  one  dhrop  more  before  going  home, 
whin  they  saw  coming  sliding  along  through  the  air 
toward  them,  about  four  feet  above  the  ground,  a 
daycint-dhressed  man,  sitting  comfortable,  his  poipe 
in  his  mouth  an'  one  leg  crossed  over  the  other.  The 
sthranger  stopped  in  the  air  not  foive  feet  away,  and 
in  the  moonlight  they  saw  him  plain  knock  the  ashes 
from  his  poipe  an'  stick  it  in  the  rim  of  his  caubeen. 

They  ketched  hould  of  aich  other,  gasping  as  he 
stepped  down  out  of  the  air  to  the  ground,  an'  wishin* 
them  the  top  of  the  avening,  he  brushed  past,  walked 
bould  to  the  bar  an'  briskly  called  for  three  jorums  of 
whusky.  Tom,  obliverous — for  he  hadn't  seen — 
handed  out  the  dhrinks,  an'  the  sthranger,  natural  as 
you  plaze,  imptied  one,  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back 
of  his  hand  an'  started  for  the  door,  carrying  the  two 
other  jorums. 

Tom,  of  course,  follyed  out  to  see  who  was  in  the 
road,  and  then  he  clutched  hould  of  the  three  others, 
an'  the  four,  grippin'  aich  other  like  lobsters  bilin' 
in  the  pot,  clung,  spacheless,  swaging  back  an'  forth. 

An'  sure  'twas  no  wonder,  for  they  saw  the  sthrange 
man  lift  the  two  cups  into  the  naked  air,  an'  they  saw 
plain  the  two  jorums  lave  his  hands,  tip  themselves 
[286] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

slowly  over  until  the  bottoms  were  uppermost — not 
one  dhrop  of  the  liquor  spillin'  to  the  ground.  They 
saw  no  more,  for  they  aich  gave  a  different  kind  of 
roar  whin  Darby  turned  to  bring  back  the  empty  ves- 
sels. The  next  second  Tom  Grogan  was  flying  like 
a  hunted  rabbit  over  the  muddy  petatie-field  behind 
his  own  stable,  whilst  Wullum  Broderick  an'  Garge 
McGibney  were  dashin'  furious  afther  him  like  Skib- 
berberg  hounds.  But  Mrs.  Grogan  didn't  run  away, 
bekase  she  was  on  her  own  thrashol',  lying  on  the  flat 
of  her  back,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  spache- 


Howandever,  with  a  rumble  an'  a  roar,  the  coach 
with  its  thravellers  wint  on  its  way. 

The  good  liquor  supplied  all  which  that  last  sight 
lacked  that  was  needful  to  put  our  three  hayroes  in 
good  humour  with  thimselves  an'  with  aich  other,  so 
that  it  wasn't  long  before  their  throubles,  bein'  forgot, 
they  were  convarsing  sociable  an'  fumiliar,  one  with 
the  other. 

Darby,  to  improve  his  informaytion,  was  sthriving 
to  make  the  best  of  the  sitiwation  be  axin'  knowledge- 
able questions.     "  What  kind  of  disposition  has  the 
banshee,  I  dunno?  "  he  says,  afther  a  time. 
[  287  ] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

"  A  foine  creachure,  an'  very  rayfined,  only  a  bit 
too  fond  of  crying  an'  wailing,"  says  Shaun. 

"  Musha,  I  know  several  livin'  women  that  cap 
fits,"  says  the  knowledgeable  man.  "  Sure,  does  she 
do  nothin'  but  wail  death  keens?  Has  she  no  good 
love-ballads  or  songs  like  that?  I'd  think  she'd  grow 
tired,"  he  says. 

"Arrah,  don't  be  talkin'!"  says  Shaun.  " 'Tis 
she  who  can  sing  them.  She  has  one  in  purticular — 
the  ballad  of  '  Mary  McGinnis  ' — that  I  wisht  ye  could 
hear  her  at,"  he  says. 

"  The  song  has  three  splendid  chunes  to  it,  an'  the 
chune  changes  at  aich  varse.  I  wisht  I  had  it  all,  but 
I'll  sing  yez  what  I  have,"  he  says.  With  that  the 
head  began  to  sing,  an'  a  foine,  deep  singin'  woice 
it  had,  too,  only  maybe  a  little  too  roarin'  for  love- 
ballads  : 

*'  Come  all  ye  thrue  lovers,  where'er  yez  may  be, 
Likewise  ye  decayvers  be  land  or  be  sea  ; 
I  hope  that  ye'll  listen  with  pity  to  me 
Since  the  jew' I  of  me  life  is  a  thraitor.n 

"  Here's  where  the  chune  changes,"  says  the  head, 
lickin'  his  lips. 

[288] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

««  On  goin"  to  church  last  Sunday  me  thrue  love  passed  me  by, 
I  knew  her  mind  was  changed  be  the  twinklin'  of  her  eye; 
I  knew  her  mind  was  changed,  which  caused  me  for  to  moan, 
'Tis  a  terrible  black  misfortin  to  think  she  cowld  has  grown." 

"  That's  what  I  call  rale  poethry,"  says  Darby. 

"  There's  no  foiner,"  says  the  King,  standing  up  on 
the  sate,  his  face  beaming. 

"  The  next  varse'll  make  yez  cry  salt  tears,"  says 
Shaun.  An'  he  sang  very  affectin' : 

"  Oh,  dig  me  a  grave  both  large,  wide,  an"  deep, 
Art  lay  me  down  gently,  to  take  me  long  sleep  / 
Put  a  stone  at  me  head  an1  a  stone  at  me  feet, 
Since  I  cannot  get  Mary  McOinnis." 

"  Faith,  'tis  a  foine,  pittiful  song,"  says  Dar- 
by, "  an'  I'd  give  a  great  dale  if  I  only  had  it," 
says  he. 

"  Musha,  who  knows ;  maybe  ye  can  get  it,"  says 
the  ould  King,  with  a  wink.  "  Ye  may  daymand  the 
favours  of  the  three  wishes  for  bringing  her  what  yer 
bringin',"  he  whuspered.  "  Shaun ! "  he  says,  out 
loud,  "  do  ye  think  the  banshee'll  give  that  song  for 
the  bringing  back  of  the  lost  comb,  I  dunno?  " 

"  I  dunno  meself,"  says  the  head,  jubious. 
[289] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

"  Bekase  if  she  would,  here's  the  man  who  has  the 
comb,  an'  he's  bringin'  it  back  to  her." 

The  head  gave  a  start  and  its  eyes  bulged  with 
gladness. 

"  Then  it's  the  lucky  man  I  am  entirely,"  he  says. 
**  For  she  promised  to  stick  me  head  on  and  to  let  me 
wear  it  purmanent,  if  I'd  only  bring  tidings  of  the 
comb,"  says  Shaun.  "  She's  been  in  a  bad  way  since 
she  lost  it.  You  know  the  crachure  can  sing  only 
whin  she's  combing  her  hair.  Since  the  comb's  broke 
her  woice  is  cracked  scand'lous,  an'  she's  bitther 
ashamed,  so  she  is.  But  here's  Croaghmah  right  be- 
fore us.  Will  yez  go  in  an'  take  a  dhrop  of  some- 
thing? "  says  he. 

Sticking  out  his  head,  Darby  saw  towering  up  in 
the  night's  gloom  bleak  Croaghmah,  the  mountain  of 
the  ghosts;  and,  as  he  thought  of  the  thousands  of 
shivering  things  inside,  an'  of  the  onpleasant  feelings 
they'd  given  him  at  Chartres'  mill  a  few  hours  be- 
fore, a  doubt  came  into  his  mind  as  to  whether  it  were 
best  to  trust  himself  inside.  He  might  never  come 
out. 

Howandever,  the  King  spoke  up  sayin',  "  Thank 
ye  kindly,  Shaun,  but  ye  know  well  that  yerself  an' 
[290] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

one  or  two  others  are  the  only  ghosts  I  'ssociate  with, 
so  we'll  just  step  out,  an'  do  you  go  in  yerself  an* 
tell  the  banshee  we're  waitin'.  Rayturn  with  her, 
Shaun,  for  ye  must  take  Darby  back." 

With  that  the  two  hayroes  dayscinded  from  the 
coach,  an'  glad  enough  was  Darby  to  put  his  brogues 
safe  an'  sound  on  the  road  agin. 

All  at  once  the  side  of  the  mountain  ferninst  them 
opened  with  a  great  crash,  an'  Shaun,  with  the  coach 
an'  horses,  disaypeared  in  a  rush,  an'  were  swolleyd 
up  be  the  mountain,  which  closed  afther  thim.  Darby 
was  blinkin'  an'  shiverin'  beside  the  King,  when  sud- 
den, an'  without  a  sound,  the  banshee  stood  before 
them. 

She  was  all  in  white,  an'  her  yallow  hair  sthrealed 
to  the  ground.  The  weight  an'  sorrow  of  ages  were 
on  her  pale  face. 

"  Is  that  you,  Brian  Connors  ?  "  she  says.  "  An' 
is  that  one  with  you  the  man  who  grabbled  me  ?  " 

"  Your  most  obadient,"  says  the  King,  bowin'  low ; 
"  it  was  a  accident,"  says  he. 

"  Well,  accident  or  no  accident,"  she  says,  savare, 
"  'tis  the  foine  lot  of  throuble  he's  caused  me,  an'  'tis 
the  illigant  lot  of  throuble  he'd  a  had  this  night  if 
[291] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

you  hadn't  saved  him,"  she  says.  The  banshee  spoke 
in  a  hollow  woice,  which  once  in  a  while'd  break  into 
a  squeak. 

"  Let  bygones  be  bygones,  ma'am,  if  you  plaze," 
says  Darby,  "  an'  I've  brought  back  yer  comb,  an'  by 
your  lave  I  ax  the  favour  of  three  wishes,"  says  he. 

Some  way  or  other  he  wasn't  so  af eared  now  that 
the  King  was  near,  an'  besides  one  square,  cool  look 
at  any  kind  of  throuble — even  if  'tis  a  ghost — takes 
half  the  dhread  from  it. 

"  I  have  only  two  favours  to  grant  any  mortial 
man,"  says  she,  "  an'  here  they  are."  With  that  she 
handed  Darby  two  small  black  stones  with  things 
carved  on  thim. 

"  The  first  stone'll  make  you  onwisible  if  you  rub 
the  front  of  it,  an*  'twill  make  you  wisible  again  if 
you  rub  the  back  of  it.  Put  the  other  stone  in  yer 
mouth  an'  ye  can  mount  an'  ride  the  wind.  So  Shaun 
needn't  dhrive  yez  back,"  she  says. 

The  King's  face  beamed  with  joy. 

"  Oh,  be  the  hokey,  Darby  me  lad,"  says  he, 
"  think  of  the  larks  we'll  have  thravellin'  nights  to- 
gether over  Ireland  ground,  an'  maybe  we'll  go  across 
the  say,"  he  says. 

[292] 


THE      BANSHEE     S      COMB 

"  But  fairies  can't  cross  runnin'  water,"  says 
Darby,  wondherin'. 

"  That's  all  shuperstition,"  says  the  King. 
"  Didn't  I  cross  the  river  Ryan?  But,  ma'am,"  says 
he,  "  you  have  a  third  favour,  an'  one  I'm  wishin'  for 
mightilly  meself,  an'  that  is,  that  ye'll  taiche  us  the 
ballad  of  '  Mary  McGinnis.'  " 

The  banshee  blushed.  "  I  have  a  cowld,"  says  she. 
"  'Tis  the  way  with  singers,"  says  the  King,  winkin' 
at  Darby,  "  but  we'll  thank  ye  to  do  yer  best,  ma'am," 
says  he. 

Well,  the  banshee  took  out  her  comb,  an'  fastening 
to  it  the  broken  ind,  she  passed  it  through  her  hair 
a  few  times  an'  began  the  song. 

At  first  her  woice  was  purty  wake  an*  thrimblin', 
but  the  more  she  combed  the  sthronger  it  grew,  till  at 
last  it  rose  high  and  clear,  and  sweet  and  wild  as 
Darby'd  heerd  it  that  Halloween  night  up  at  Mc- 
Carthy's. 

The  two  hayroes  stood  in  the  shadow  of  a  three, 
Darby  listening  and  the  King  busy  writing  down  the 
song.  At  the  last  worrud  the  place  where  she  had 
been  standing  flashed  empty  an*  Darby  never  saw  her 
again. 

[293] 


THE       BANSHEE     S       COMB 

I  wisht  I  had  all  the  song  to  let  your  honour  hear 
it,  an'  maybe  I'll  learn  it  from  Darby  be  the  next  time 
ye  come  this  way,  an'  I  wisht  I  had  time  to  tell  your 
honour  how  Darby,  one  day  havin'  made  himself  on- 
wisible,  lost  the  stone,  and  how  Bothered  Bill  Donahue 
found  it,  and  how  Bill,  rubbin'  it  be  accident,  made 
himself  onwisible,  an'  of  the  turrible  time  Darby  had 
a-finding  him. 

But  here's  Kilcuny,  an'  there's  the  inn,  an' — thank 
ye!  God  bless  yer  honour! 


THE 


[294] 


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